To Build a Home
by xRainyDaysxx
Summary: *Sequel to Holding On and Letting Go.* Eight months of being out on the road you see a lot. You see a lot of walkers, death, destruction, other survivors, and emptiness. Because of my experiences I assumed I had saw all there was to see of what's left of this world – I was wrong. And I think I knew that the second I was staring down the barrel of a fully loaded gun.
1. Prologue

**Annndddd we're back! **

**Let's get to it, shall we?**

***I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

_"This is a place where I don't feel alone._

_ This is a place where I feel at home." _

_~ The Cinematic Orchestra: To Build a Home_

* * *

_Prologue:_

The man paces back in forth between these four walls, the heels of his boots clicking on the hard floor with each step. The sound echoes, bounces, until it is swallowed up. I watch his worn boots as he goes; my blood-filled mouth is open as labored breaths of air travel in and out of it. My face stings, my eyes feel wet, and a blood droplet falls down from my cheek and stains the floor.

The boots still and so does my heart for a moment, but I refuse to look up. You would think someone would want to know what their killer looks like, but no, not me. This man doesn't deserve any words from my lips, much less my eyes.

"We're done playing games." he says, but I don't think I am. I'm pretty sure I could go for another round of hide and seek. I hide the information this man is so desperately searching for and he tries to seek it – get it out of me – little does he know I'll never tell . . .

The boots are back to moving and this time they come for me. His shadow looms over my crumpled form, swallowing me up like this room swallows his footfalls after a brief hesitation. His fingers find my chin and they force my stiff head up.

I stare death in the face, green on green, and then the man opens his mouth to speak once more. "Now, you're gonna give up where your camp's at."

My eyes move over his shoulder to the two people behind him – _his people –_ with their smug looks and deadly weapons. They would die for this man right here, I know that, and I will die for my family back home, too.

Lazily, my gaze slides back over to the person gripping me with his cold stare. "No can do . . . _mister."_ I spit, my tongue gliding over the blood that has settled in my mouth and I taste the metallic liquid there.

He lets go of me, backs up a few feet, and then his gun is out; a shiny revolver. Quickly, he takes three strides forward and closes the distance between us. The revolver presses against my forehead, it feels cool against my burning skin, and I realize that this is the first time I've ever looked down the barrel of a fully loaded gun.

The gun clicks. "So unwise . . ." the man mutters to me.

This is where I will die.

I will die in a smothering room with a man I don't know and in a place I'm unfamiliar with. Bruised and bloody, I will go out quickly like turning off a light. _Alone _– I will die alone even though there are others in here with me.

You always face death alone.

I think about my family back at that safe haven I never gave up as the man pulls the trigger.

* * *

**The Last of Us soundtrack causes me to write stuff like this, I'm sorry.**

**I know this wasn't very home-like – such as the title of this fanfic expresses – but this was just a little preview of what's to come.**

**It'll all make sense in time.**

**~ Rainy**


	2. Chapter 1: How It Is

**Didn't expect to have this done so quickly, but hey, it's here.**

***I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

Chapter 1: How It Is

* * *

**EIGHT MONTHS LATER**

* * *

_"One . . . two . . ."_

We found a house – we've found lots of houses before – but this one is old and rotting. The white double doors we're crouched near are chipped and peeling, the stone porch steps are loose and wobbly, and the yard is trashed.

But as I reach back and fish an arrow out of my quiver to load into my bow, I'm not degrading this place. If anything, I'll take it – better than sleeping in whatever car it's my turn to hunker down in. We've been doing that for days now, maybe even a week; whenever we got kicked out of our last place. Doesn't matter, though – every building we stay at looks the same. Dull and boring, it all runs together.

The vehicles are the closest thing to a home right now.

_"Three."_

With a grunt, Rick kicks both of the doors and they bust open to reveal two walkers standing in the hallway, blank-minded. The first one is dispatched of quickly, an easy shot to the head from Rick's gun; the silencer doing its job nicely. T-dog is next in line and he jabs his iron fireplace poker through its forehead, breaking a window in the process, and the body falls down with the glass.

Daryl, Carl, and I advance into the house after Rick and T-dog, bows and gun raised and ready to fire. Brushing past the bodies, Carl and I go our separate ways while I stick with Daryl. My foot lands in some blood as I go past one of the crumpled dead walkers and it squishes under my sole – _whatever. _

Daryl and I enter a musty smelling room to the right of the entranceway. The floors, walls, and ceiling are covered in wood paneling, which I think is kind of ugly, but then I pick up on a moan and my eyes tear away from the wood to the geek standing in the middle of this room, looking as dazed as his buddy's did.

Moving over to the side of the doorway, Daryl doesn't aim at the hungry freak. Instead, a quick glance is shared between the two of us and then I know what he wants me to do, and I gotta do it. Stepping forward, I try to the best of my ability to creep up on the walker like Daryl showed one cold day he took me out hunting. My fingers are exposed by my fingerless, black leather gloves and they clutch my bow tightly as I line the weapon up with the walker's head. The bow I'm holding isn't a crossbow like Daryl's – more of a beginner bow – but it is still deadly, nonetheless.

_Breathe. _My heart is pounding, my arms are shaking; I'm still new to this whole killing-quietly concept.

_Breathe. _That's what Daryl always tells me because I'm too tense.

_Breathe. Relax._

Letting out a whoosh of air, I release the arrow and it flies into the biter's skull, making it fall to the hard floor with a gurgle.

I glance at Daryl, he nods with a little brightness added to his face, and then he simply reaches out a hand to pat me on the back.

_"You did good, kid." _that's what he would say, but we don't talk here. We can't.

I know the drill so after quickly sliding my arrow out of the monster I just put down; I'm searching the little room for supplies. We're desperate at this point so anything will do, really. While scavenging I quickly come to terms on what this room exactly was. A cracked TV leans against one of the walls, a ripped, worn sofa is positioned in front of it, and between the two sits a shattered coffee table – this was the living room.

A living room that has nothing that we can use . . . _figures._

That's the usual, isn't it?

A low whistle attracts my attention, then, and Daryl is pointing at a door at the other end of the room I hadn't noticed, perhaps a closest, and I already got another arrow loaded before he can move another inch. Slowly advancing forward, one step at a time, thinking about each time you place your foot down, weapon aimed – that's how you survive now. We're at the door, I'm focused, and just as I'm reminding myself to breathe, the door flies open. My breath hitches in my throat, there is a bright light shining in my face, and then I register who it is.

Friend, family, leader – _Rick. _

_It's just Rick. _

All of our hearts slow as the three of us have the same realization and weapons lower. The light in my face is Rick's flashlight and that is flicked down shortly after the bows and gun. Eyes meet, nods exchange, and then we are moving on. That's the thing about scavenging in a new place like this one. You have to be quick but silent. Everything is precise.

Daryl and me meet T-dog out in the hall and my nose takes note that this whole house smells mildewy, not just the wood panel room.

T-dog gestures up with his fireplace poker he's really taken a liking to the past few weeks. He whispers, _"Upstairs."_

Daryl begins to close in on the staircase and I go to follow because that's my job, but the man turns, mutters, "Stay here."

This pulls me up short. "But – "

_"No." _And I get that low, serious tone with the pointed glare and I know – _oh, I know –_ that I best listen.

So I do. I bite my tongue, hold my breath, and watch as T-dog and Daryl bound up the creaky steps. Sighing, I drop the arm holding my bow limply down to my side – examine this broken-down house. It's always the same old shit. Always because I'm thirteen, because it's dangerous, because I'm still learning, because they're scared – excuses, excuses.

Excuses can only protect me for so long.

* * *

By the time the two people who were upstairs make it back down, Rick, Carl, Glenn, and Maggie have joined me in the main entranceway. Daryl comes down picking at a lifeless owl – probably the most valuable thing in this building – and one owl vs. eleven people . . . the odds aren't that great. Some of us will eat while others go hungry, it is what it is. Rick leans out the open front doors, whistling a melody only my family knows, and then the rest of us appear.

Carol and Beth come in first, they both look tired, and Carol hands me my backpack as she passes; it goes over my shoulder with my quiver. A heavily pregnant Lori is next and she looks like she's about to pop any day now, and I know I should be happy, but I can't seem to get myself up that way. Hershel is last and then Rick is shutting the doors, they close with a groan.

We all meet up in a room with peeling walls and I take my usual seat next to my other partner in crime, Carl. Over the course of the past eight months I have allowed myself to consider the boy with the Sheriff hat my friend and it is nice to have someone my age around, I suppose. Setting my bow down in my lap, I watch the owl's feathers fall from the chair Daryl is sitting in as he continues to pick at it. Carl nudges me and my brain decides the owl isn't that important anymore as he pushes a can of dog food into my hand.

Normally, I would never think of it but it's gotten to the point where munching on dog food doesn't sound all that bad right now. Carl has his own can and my green eyes stare at him as he proceeds to pry it open with his knife.

Footsteps then approach and as a shadow looms over the both of us, I look up to see Rick staring down at the cans – a look on his face I can't quite explain. Bending down, he snatches the faded, yellow cans up and without a moment of hesitation, our leader chucks them at the fireplace. I flinch as contact is made, the metal of the cans clattering against stone.

I guess we're not going there today.

This room is awfully quiet and stiff. I'm so damn tired – I guess I'm hungry, too – and this horribly smelling house is enough to give me a headache. Daryl and I could go hunting before it gets dark. I'm still learning, but we could at least try to catch something so –

_"Psst!" _that's T-dog, he's by the window. The man is up now, face pulled tight and serious, and I look through the glass to see what he's seeing.

Shit.

Walkers. A whole group of them, actually. Not a whole big herd, no, but enough that it isn't worth trying to fight.

T-dog gave the cue, now it's time to follow the drill.

Get up, grab your stuff, and get the hell out.

Jogging outside through the back door, Daryl leads while Rick brings up the rear – same old, same old. The geeks are quickly closing in and I toss my backpack, bow, quiver – all of it – into the open trunk of the green car while passing. There is no time to put my stuff where it belongs. My good feet continue going fast until I reach Daryl's motorcycle. He's already got it up and running, just waiting for me, and as I sling a leg over the seat he glances back, asking,

"You good?"

"I'm good."

And that's all he needs to hear before he kicks the bike into action, taking off down the street.

Because this is how it is now.

* * *

**So, was that okay?**

**~ Rainy**


	3. Chapter 2: Home

**To answer a question someone had: the last chapter was short because it was setting the stage and showing how the group has changed in the past eight months.**

***I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

Chapter 2: Home

Deep into the winter months – when fresh snow blanketed the ground and group members began to fall ill from the freezing atmosphere – was around the time I called Daryl _Dad. _It was an accident, a simple word escaped from my lips possibly because I was drowsy on cold medicine Glenn stumbled upon at a heavily looted drug store, or equally important, because Dad and Daryl both start the same way. Whatever it was that dared the three letter word to enter my mind while I laid under three blankets – boiling hot yet ice cold at the same time – left me panicked, nonetheless.

Dad is a word I don't take lightly and even though Daryl had told me it was alright time and time again because I was protected under the excuses, the memories that had been buried deep down inside me sprouted up like a flower. And as the sickness spreading throughout the group wore on, I fell into a sadness – a – a depression of some sorts. Between reliving my old life and constantly sensing the fear in everyone else because colds are a lot more terrifying than they used to be, I slipped into the darkness. No longer could I find my comfort, my sunshine, because the days were shorter and even when there was light I found it to be still dull.

But I got through it, we all did, and I haven't felt that demanding sorrow since.

I guess that's why I kept it locked away from everyone, Daryl included – keep telling myself that . . .

Now, though, the days are slowly becoming longer again as spring creeps up on us and warms our souls. There are times when it is cold, such as early mornings and late nights, but other than that I can still find the warmth. In fact, the warmth is here right now as Daryl and I cruise down another broken road – the others following closely behind in their vehicles. I don't like motorcycles because I'm afraid of falling off, and even Daryl knows this. There are no seatbelts, no helmets – just the air and concrete to catch you when you lose your balance. But why I continue to ride one while we're on the run, I can't say, it's just something about the freedom it carries that my teenager self enjoys.

Since I am afraid of falling, I find it best to bury my head into Daryl's angel wing vest – which is what I'm doing now – and only lift it when I feel comfortable enough. The wind is whipping my hair around right now, whistling in my ears, and I have Daryl's poncho – which is actually some horse blanket he picked up when we slept in a barn – thrown over my shoulders because freedom is cold, believe it or not. The pounding force of air lets up for a second as the bike is slowed. Lifting my head, I can hear the faint rumble of the motorcycle as we take a tight turn. There are walkers here and another fear I have of riding on a motorcycle is getting grabbed, so my head quickly retreats back down.

Moving a hand off of a handlebar, Daryl covers one of his hands with both of mine that are wrapped around him – squeezes.

It's good to have people around.

* * *

We don't travel much longer until a horn is beeped and it's time to stop again.

There is no house this time, just trees for miles, and I know that this is only a minor pit stop so we can regroup; figure something out. Jumping off the bike, everyone else is either flowing out of the silver pickup, red car, or green car – car doors slamming closed after them. I quickly get to the green car, which is to my right, open the trunk, and grab my bow – leave the other stuff for now. I then slip Daryl's bright colored poncho off over my head because it isn't breezy anymore and hand it back to him.

"You don't want it?" he questions after the object is back into his possession. I watch as he unhooks the crossbow from the motorcycle that was once his brother's.

I shake my head. "Nah. I'm good for now."

"Alright . . . y'all geared up?"

Pausing, I double check. My bow, my quiver, the gun tucked into my waistband, got a knife in my holster, another in my right boot – everything is there. "Yep."

Daryl nods. "Good." And then it's time for me to get with my partner so we can take our post, so turning away, I jog up ahead to where Carl and Rick are standing – bow in hand.

Rick examines the surroundings before he turns to Carl and me, barely making eye contact. "_Fifteen – _you're on point." We both give a quick and simple nod because we got this, Carl and I do. His gun is out, silencer on, and my bow is ready and loaded with an arrow.

I watch my side of the road and he watches his, T-dog starts the conversation at the green car; they most likely have that faded map of Georgia spread across the hood. "We've got no place left to go."

We've just been going around and around in circles all fall and winter, I'm tired and dizzy.

They discuss the herd topic and we have seen plenty of that around. Herds joining herds, water, towns – that's all I hear before I block out the same group discussion I have listened to too many times to count. A grey squirrel scampers out from the underbrush and onto the road, then. I stare at it, think about shooting the creature because my stomach is growling, but then the meeting is over so I let it go. Taking a quick glance over my shoulder, I notice people walking away – I have no idea what the plan is.

"What's – "

"My dad and Daryl are going hunting," Carl answers, still in watch stance, and I guess he's used to me tuning out group meetings now. I start to feel bummed because I wanted to go hunting, but then I remember I'm on watch and still got a good twelve minutes left. Rick said fifteen, didn't he? _Yeah. _"The others went down to the creek for water. We're gonna double back to some place."

I readjust the bow in my arms, roll a shoulder. The squirrel is long gone now. "No use. We've been all over state."

"They said it's some place we haven't gone yet." The boy turns to me and I realize he's a few inches taller than me, now. We used to be about the same height . . . "I don't know . . ." Carl sighs, shaking his head. "Maybe we should try somewhere else – Florida or something."

I bite my lip. "I've never been out of state before." I speak hesitantly and honestly, Georgia has become a safety blanket for me; some place I don't think I am ready to leave.

_"Really?"_

"Positive." I flick his hat, getting back on track. "C'mon, Sheriff, we've still got ten minutes left."

* * *

Truthful to his word, Rick and Daryl return ten minutes later – but they don't have any game. The others trudge up the hill carrying jugs of water and as those are placed in the bed of the silver pickup; our leader reveals some news to us.

_Good news._

Out on the hunt he and Daryl found something.

They found a prison.

* * *

The walk to the prison is short. We go through the woods a bit, take down a few walkers, scamper down a little hill into a valley, and walk over a wooden bridge to get across a lake – no big deal.

But then the prison itself comes into view and it becomes a bigger deal. The place is made out of gray, sturdy concrete; locked up safe and secure by metal bars. Tall, chain-link fences line the perimeter, there are guard towers in a huge field for lookout, a courtyard – this is bigger than any building we've ever stayed at before.

The only problem is the prison is overrun and as Rick cuts the fence open with red bolt cutters, they are getting riled up. Although most of the walkers are inside the fences, there are a few straggles outside and one of them with straggly hair stumbles up to us, snarling. I aim my bow, ready to go, but Glenn and Maggie take control – he pins it to the fence with a long gardening tool and she stabs the geek in the head with a hammer, ending it.

"Watch the backside!" T-dog warns over all of the commotion and we have formed some kind of clump now. I spin around, my slightly shaky fingers holding the arrow in place – I got it, alright. Alright, alright, alright; let's do this.

Rick's got the fence all cut now and him and Daryl hold it open like a door. We step through the opening one at a time, quick and cautious. T-dog is the last one and then Daryl and Glenn are hurriedly tying the gap together with orange wire before any walkers can get close. I'm on high alert now, twisting and turning – looking all around. We're in some kind of gravel walkway, fences on either side. The field is to the left and where we just came through is on my right. Now that we are closer I notice that the walkers in the field all have blue, sun-bleached jumpers on, while the ones outside the fences are dressed in more ordinary clothes. _Prisoners._

The biters start to notice the fresh meat placed in front of them, then, and they pounce onto the surrounding fences, clawing and licking at the wire. I grimace at them, squinting because the sun shines bright here, and then we are running down the gravel path at a collected pace. Over time, I have become one of the fastest of the group so I find myself right up there with Rick, Glenn, and Daryl – leading the pack. Around a corner and through a medium sized gate we go, before my feet slow so my lungs can take a break. The gravel path has turned into a rectangle and there is a guard tower here, too, providing some nice blockage from the sun.

Rick kneels down, shrugs off his bag, and walks right up to fence; observing what's beyond it. "It's perfect . . ." he pants, and in a normal world it would never be because this is a place bad people go, but in this world right here and now it is truly _perfect. _Our leader points to an open gate across the way. "If we can shut that gate, prevent more from filling the yard, we can pick off these walkers." He has to talk loud because the walkers followed us over here. They are starving. "We'll take the field by tonight."

Hershel steps forward. "So how do we shut the gate?"

Glenn volunteers to do it and even though he doesn't do as much as he used to, it still gives me the feeling that someone else should complete the task or at least help him. Maggie says no, though, the plan is a suicide mission and sneaking a peek at the yard, it kind of is.

"I'm the fastest," Glenn argues, holding his shovel in one hand. He's the fastest male. If they wanted a female to do it, it would be me because I'm the fastest of that gender. But until I get older and better, I'll stick with being the fastest girl instead of overall.

But Rick declines Glenn's offer, takes control – he's good at that. Maggie, Beth, T-dog, and Glenn will take the fence and draw as many walkers as they can over there, stab them through the chain-link. Daryl, Carol, and I are taking the tower further back by we came in; Carl and Hershel get the one right here. Rick will be the one to run for the gate, good call.

We're going to do this, my family and I, and I'm ready.

Carol, Daryl, and I – the three of us – we quickly jog down to the tower after Carol grabs a gun. I am the first one in, it's dark inside but clear of walkers, and then I'm bolting up the stairs; the other two close behind. Reaching the top there is a red, heavy door just like the one at the bottom and pushing that open, it is a breath of fresh air – like surfacing after being underwater for a while. The view is surprisingly great, and I have a clear view of all of the walkers and then some.

We position ourselves. Daryl stands to my right and Carol to my left. I get my bow ready, arrows all situated, and then I glance over to the next tower to see Hershel and Carl aiming at the field down below. Beth, Maggie, T-dog, and Glenn are down banging on the fence – I can hear their hollers from here, watch as Glenn stabs the first one right in the eye with a dagger. Rick and Lori are by the gate, I can just make them out from here, and they share a look before she slides the metal back, her husband slipping through.

There is an overturned bus right in front of the gate so that conceals Rick for a few moments before he makes run for it, gun aimed while another one – a rifle – sits on his back. Just as Rick pulls the trigger and his first walker falls, the shot concealed by the silencer, Daryl asks,

"Ready?"

Deep breath. "Ready."

I line my arrow up with a geek of my choosing because it's all about good timing and good instincts. Letting the arrow fly, it slices right through the thing's head – ending it. I pull back, blow out of my mouth, and I'm completely focused now.

Carol almost hits Rick by accident and he scurries back, dancing around the bullet. I bullseye two more freaks.

But then I'm getting low on ammo so I put the bow down, toss away being quiet, and take out my handgun. Everyone else is shooting, the gunshots hurting my ears, and I now understand why people wear headphones at ranges. We don't have that luxury here, though. Firing a gun is not as new to me as shooting a bow is so I feel more in charge. Killing becomes easy, easy becomes fun like a game, and maybe that is a bad sign, but who knows?

Rick reaches the target, kicks a walker back trying to grab at him, and closes the gate shut – locking it. Turning, the man runs to the tower near the gate, fires off some more shots, and disappears inside.

"He did it." says Carol as we pause for a moment.

Daryl cups his hand over his mouth, shouts, "Light it up!"

So we do.

And damn does it feel good.

* * *

Daryl, Carol, and I meet Hershel and Carl down in the rectangle at the bottom of their tower. Carol is smiling, looking happier than I've seen her in a while, and she exclaims as she steps over a dead walker, "Fantastic!"

My arms are sore, my ears have a faint ringing stuck in them, but hey, I'm sure not complaining.

Daryl touches my head. "Nice shootin'." And I grin because he taught me most of it.

Carl and I exchange a smile and then the five of us are passing Lori who is holding open the gate she let Rick through. Carol asks is she's okay and the woman's face brightens. "Haven't felt this good in weeks," Days, weeks, months – nothing can quite compare to this joy.

The smile is still plastered on my face as I pass Lori and trudge into the field – _our field. _We did it, we cleared it out, and it's ours; this whole place is.

_Ours._

_Safe._

Our field is littered with bodies, but who cares? Not me.

"Oh!" Carol moans as we venture further into what we won, taking it all in. She starts to jog, laughing, "We haven't had this much space since the farm!"

There are dark memories at the farm but I won't let myself pull me down there. Instead I hold out my arms, breathe in the fresh air, and look up at the blue sky and puffy clouds that for once make me feel the way they're supposed to. My insides are buzzing.

The others have joined the five of us, filtering in behind, and I don't even realize that we got a live biter until I turn to see Glenn shoving his dagger into its skull.

T-dog chuckles, throwing up his arms, _"Whoooooo!"_

We haven't had one of these days in a very long time.

* * *

Without a doubt, the best part of the day was definitely getting to go hunting with Daryl.

This place is like a gold mine for squirrels and we caught about six, which was plenty. Daryl shot three and I shot three – even-Steven.

We also moved the vehicles up to the main gates and I'm glad that they don't have to play house anymore. Now, as I lay on my back it is night and I'm using my backpack as a pillow. We are all scattered around the fire we created in our field and I'm wrapped up in my jacket because it gets chilly at night. And as I gaze up at the stars, my stomach is content, my body is warm, and I feel safe.

"Mmm. Just like mom used to make." I hear Glenn murmur. I close my eyes.

There is a tap on my shoulder and I open my eyes to see Carl lying down on his back next to me, looking up.

The boy points, talks softly, "Big Dipper."

A grin spreads across my face as the memory comes back.

"I couldn't find it for a while," he continues, "but I got it now."

"Yeah?" I ask.

_"Yeah . . . _Did you know it used to be called the Drinking Gourd?"

I stretch my arms back, the grin is still there. _He remembers. _"No. I was more of a math person."

And that's when we look at each other, I realize he's grinning, too, and we both chuckle.

"Liar." Carl says when the snickers die down.

"You're telling me . . ."

"That's his third time around," I hear Hershel comment, then, and I roll over because the mood is serious again. "If there was any part of it compromised, he'd have found it by now."

He's talking about Rick, that's what, and I know it right away. Glancing back, I see our leader strolling beside the fence, getting the walkers' attention that are in the courtyard. He always does this, been doing it since after the farm – he paces and paces and paces, and I don't know why. Ever since that shift things have been . . . _different. _Sometimes he shuts us out, I witness him do it a lot to Lori, and I worry about him.

But at the end of the day, I know he just wants what is best for _us_ and he is protecting _us._

Beth tells Lori that this will be a good place to have the baby safe and the woman pulls her lips up into another one of those tight smiles. Hershel asks Beth to sing a song he hasn't heard since her mother died. Maggie says not that one, please, and then the old man suggests some song titled: "The Parting Glass". I've never heard of it, Carl and I lie down on our stomachs, and Beth says that no one wants to hear.

"Why not?" Glenn asks, looking at her sleepily with his knees pulled to his chest and yeah, why not?

Beth looks around. She appears nervous but I don't know why – not like having a good voice matters much anymore. "Okay."

And a beat later she starts, the crickets politely quieting down for her.

_"Of all the money that e'er I had,_

_I spent it in good company._

_And all the harm e'er I've ever done. _

_Alas it was to none but me._

_And all I've done for want of wit._

_To memory now I can't recall._

_So fill to me the parting glass._

_Goodnight and joy be with you all."_

The song is different, quiet, and I'm not sure whether I like it or not. I mean, it's not terrible just not my style. I'm more of a rock 'n roll type of girl. Daryl and Carol approach, they were on the bus keeping watch and such, and Rick then appears beside Carl – crouched low. Maggie joins in with her sister and although I don't listen to the lyrics anymore, I still catch onto the soothing tune as my eyes stare into the fire and my teeth chew on my thumb.

Rick picks up a bowl of food and it gains my attention because I never see him eat anymore; I mean, I'm sure he does I just never see him do it. He offers some of the meat to Carl, Lori, before he reaches in and takes a bite. The song is over, now, and Hershel describes it in one word,

"_Beautiful."_

"Better all turn in," Rick says, shifting, and I don't let go of my thumb. He nods to some place across the way. "I'll take watch over there. Got a big day tomorrow."

Big day? What are we doing tomorrow?

Glenn wrinkles his face from on the other side of the fire. Maggie has her head on his shoulder. "What do you mean?"

Rick looks down for a moment; he's playing with a blade of grass in his hands. "Look, I know we're all exhausted. This was a great win. But we've gotta push just a little bit more."

I don't know if I can . . .

"Most of the walkers are dressed as guards and prisoners, looks like this place fell pretty early. It could mean the supplies may be intact. They'd have an infirmary, a commissary."

"An armory?" questions Daryl, holding his crossbow strap.

"That would be outside the prison itself, but not too far away. Warden's office would have info on the location . . . Weapons, food, medicine. This place could be a _gold mine."_

"We're dangerously low on ammo." Hershel reminds him. "We'd run out before we make a dent."

That's why we have to rest, take it easy, regroup – it's been a brutal and rough eight months.

"That's why we have to go in there . . . _hand-to-hand."_

I don't like the sound of that.

"After all we've been through, we can handle it, I know it." He glances to his son, a lightness added to his tone, "These assholes don't stand a chance."

And then our leader looks around at each one of us, nods, drops the dead blade of grass, stands, and walks off. _Gone as usual._

A boot softly nudging at my hand breaks me from my thoughts and I peer up to see Daryl staring down at me. That's when I realize my thumb is still in my mouth and I drop it, I know he hates that. Daryl kneels down and taking the back of his hand, he feels my forehead. Ever since I got sick a couple months ago he's been real paranoid about it. I think part of the reason was he had no idea what to do about my illness.

Sighing, Daryl moves away, talking very, very tiredly, "Get some sleep, kid."

And so I do.

I curl up in our field amongst my family and just before I drift off, I think about what this new place could be.

_Home._

* * *

_"'Cause they say home is where your heart is set in stone._

_Is where you go when you're alone._

_Is where you go to rest your bones._

_It's not just where you lay your head._

_It's not just where you make your bed._

_As long as we're together, does it matter where we go?"_

_~ Gabrielle Aplin: Home_

* * *

**This'll be the last update for a while because I'll be up at the mountains.**

**That's why I made this chapter extra-long to hopefully hold you all over for a bit.**

**~ Rainy **


	4. Chapter 3: Calm

**I'm back again!**

**:)**

***I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

Chapter 3: Calm

Everyone is wound tight and tension runs high in the air as I position myself at the fence the next morning. Carl is on my right, Carol to my left, and Lori and Beth are a couple feet down. Hershel stands at the gate – tightly clutching the grey chain-link – as Rick, Daryl, T-dog, Maggie, and Glenn ready themselves for what's to come. We squeezed out the last amount of strength that was left in us to fight for the soil under my feet yesterday and now, it doesn't even seem to matter anymore because there is a new obstacle we have yet to overcome.

That's what I've learned from being out on the road . . . Who you think you are or what accomplishments you have completed are nothing compared to this world.

It always has something more to give.

A rusted, spiraled pipe sits firmly in my grasp and I switch it back and forth between fingerless glove-covered hands. My bow is absent from the scene, don't need it, but I can feel the cool metal from the gun and knife at my waist when I move a certain way; the knife stuffed down in my right combat boot also shows itself by slightly rubbing against my ankle with every step.

This courtyard is a death yard suggesting by the blank-minded, stumbling walkers sprinkled in it, and their eerie noises quickly fill up my ears. I look away from the area we have yet to claim and over to the gate Hershel's still gripping. There is a big red octagon mounted on the chain-link and it reads in large white letters: "STOP. WAIT FOR CLEARANCE.". I wish we could, I wish we could stop, but there is no one here to clear us and help. We don't get choices; they were robbed of us long ago.

My eyes retreat from the gate, the pipe stills, and I share the usual nod with Carl. A moment passes – a second, a beat, a breath – and then we get the show on the road with Hershel sliding back the gate and five of my family members slipping willingly into the danger. T-dog gets the first freak, sticking the formal inmate with his fireplace poker, and even though all of this is a hard pill to swallow we've survived worse. _Together._

Just like how we will push forward and win a home . . . _together. _

The others begin to slowly advance into the courtyard. They tightly shuffle in a circle formation so that everyone can watch each other's backs – Rick leads while Daryl holds the other three together – and I stare as the bodies start to fall down on the worn concrete. Hershel slides down to us – the people that are still where the others started – and then it triggers something in all of us since we are together as it should be. _Go time._

Moving along the fence, stepping sideways as we go, we do our job. I slam the pipe into the fence; kick the flimsy yet strong metal. Scream, _"Hey!"_

And then it begins.

The shouting, the taunting, the beating on the fence – it all runs together until it is one big noise.

The first walker we get Hershel takes down and then a few more come our way. A geek starts to shuffle towards me and I lure it in.

"Hey, asshole!" My teeth are gritted, my pipe is ready. _"C'mon!" _It snarls at me, practically tripping over its own two feet, and then I stab the not-human thing right between the eyes just like I've been taught. Piece of shit . . .

We manage to grab the attention of some others, I add two more walkers to my kill tally I have lost count of long ago. But there is still a lot more left in this broken-down place.

_There's just not enough coming._

I'm worked up now, kicking the fence, pacing, yelling, "Over here! Let's go!"

But our efforts do little to help because Glenn and T-dog and Maggie and Daryl and Rick – they got it. This part of the prison is now cleared, decorated in a sea of blue jumpers and occasional normal clothes.

We push on.

Almost home.

I watch as Rick leads the other four into the shade that a catwalk from up above provides. T-dog has a shield that was most likely taken from a guard – good thinking. Rick nudges a barely-open door, scanning whatever is inside for a second, and then him and all the other familiar faces disappear around the corner and out of eyesight.

"Damn it . . ." I mutter, grabbing the fence, and no one even gets on my case about it. Without taking my eyes off of the prison, I shuffle down the fence until I reach Lori and Beth – struggle to grasp a view of them again. _Nothing. _The corner is so abrupt and steep that there is no peering around it from here.

Lori starts to run the fence like I am and she goes to Carol. They've become good friends over time. "I can't see them. Can you see them?" she states and then questions with a quickness added to her words, she's starting to panic a bit.

Carol replies, whispering; which I'm not sure why because there is nothing left out here, _"They're back there . . ."_

A minute passes, another one – _one Mississippi . . . two Mississippi . . . _I pace, I chew on my fingernails, and I never take my eyes off of the spot I last saw them. At one point I here Rick screaming Daryl's name because my ears are listening harder than ever right now, and I don't like that one bit. Letting my fingers go, they fall lifelessly down to my sides; Daryl doesn't like it when I chew on them.

It gets quiet. I don't like the quiet, it brings bad things. But this is a good quiet because my friends step out from the darkness I hate so much, a little bloody and dirty, but okay, and I can breathe again.

Maggie, Daryl, Glenn, T-dog, Rick – that's five. They're all there. _Good. Good, good, good, good . . ._

Glenn begins to jog up to the gate we have all bunched by and when he gets merely one or two yards away, something stops him. The man halts, turns, and then back to Rick he goes. Huh? They are in a circle, talking, discussing – I can see lips moving from bodies turned my way but no words get to me. Daryl points back to where they came from, buck knife in hand, and then down to a dead body with normal clothes. Our leader is looking around, getting a good eyeful of all the surroundings. There is a jerk of a head from him, I see it, and he leads the other four past the ones that have no idea what is going on and to a caged staircase. Rick grabs the rusted door and it swings back without much effort. He and Daryl scale the steps and as T-dog, Glenn, and Maggie fill in the gaps behind them, I pan up to read a square sign labeled: "CELL BLOCK C". Daryl pushes back a steel, red door and it flows back smoothly. Everything is dark inside and everyone ventures into the unknown, the door closing behind them with a loud wail much different than the screech the gate made.

_What the hell?_

* * *

Five, ten, maybe even fifteen minutes we spend waiting at that gate for something we are uncertain of. Fifteen minutes of being burned by the sun – which is fine because I prefer the scorching heat over the brittle cold any day – before the door wails once more and Glenn and Maggie appear. We were a little anxious at first but then they informed us that we got a place to stay and need to get our stuff, so we got better. And as I jogged through our field and snatched up my few belongings, the sun still followed me. I like the sun. It makes me alive – _okay._

The darkness doesn't sit well with me.

Glenn opens the shrieking gate for us and it doesn't sound all that bad this time around. We enter the courtyard – which is our courtyard now just like the field – and the sun heats this slab of concrete the most; still okay. Following Glenn up the stairs with the cage and through the red wailing door, I keep my backpack and quiver swung over my shoulder – hold my bow in my left hand. As soon as the door is smoothly glided shut and the sunlight is gone we all pause for a moment to take everything in.

It is cooler in here, darker, and the only light flowing in is from a barred window placed high up on the wall to my right. The walls, floors, objects – everything – is gray and dull. A staircase all the way to the left leads up to a glass box where I spot a slumped over body in a chair, blood stains the glass. Moving further, Glenn leads us through an open barred door and down a set of stairs. The floor is completely trash-covered and my foot kicks an empty can of soup as we walk. Water also splatters some of the floor, pieces of trash floating in it, and I can even hear the drip-drop sound of the liquid falling down from somewhere. I examine some more and see two, dirty round tables with chairs attached, a balcony that wraps around half of the room, and empty cages – a lot of things are caged.

I've never been in a prison before.

Another doorway is conquered before we go under an archway and are greeted with some more prison-like surroundings. Two floors of open cells showcase the left side of the room, while the right keeps sporting those barred windows. Stairs in front of me go up to a perch which leads to the second floor of cells. Two signs – each on either side of the space – are square and read much like the one did outside: "C BLOCK". Just the "CELL" part is missing.

T-dog is dragging a body away, Daryl is looking around in the cells upstairs, and Rick is walking down the steps.

Our leader looks at us, his face is brightened more than I have seen in a long while, and he asks, "What do you think?"

"Home sweet home . . ." Glenn says grudgingly from the front as we fill into the space.

Rick's feet continue to thud down the steps until he is right here with us. "For the time being,"

Lori is examining the place as I had moments before, rubbing her belly. "It's secure?"

Her husband nods. "This cellblock is." It's weird that he's talking her.

A moment of nothing passes. Carl sides up next to me.

"What about the rest of the prison?" Hershel asks.

"In the morning, we'll find the cafeteria and infirmary."

"We . . . sleep in the cells?" hesitantly asks Beth.

"I found keys on some guards. Daryl has a set, too."

"I ain't sleepin' in no cage." Daryl states, strolling down the raised walkway. "I'll take the perch."

I shrug, the bag and quiver strap digging into my shoulders. I don't mind sleeping in a cell, or cage, as Daryl called it. This place may be gloomy but it doesn't give me that feeling I got out on the road in the darkest months of the year. Besides . . . a bed sounds so good right now.

We separate. Glenn and Maggie claim a cell on the first floor, Rick goes off to probably pace some more, and I spot Lori and Carol scaling the steps to the second floor. Carl leaves my side and walks over with Beth to a cell – I follow, stepping on trash as I go. I stand in the doorframe; Beth throws her things down in a corner.

"Pretty gross . . ." she says, lugging over to the bunk bed with frayed sheets. It's not that bad.

Carl scoffs, gun in hand, "Yeah, remember those storage units?"

What was that – one, two months ago? That was the worst place we've ever stayed at. There was a weird smell, raccoons in some units, roaches in boxes, spoiled food – we practically slept in filth.

Beth plops down on the bottom bunk and it bounces a bit. She pauses, feels the mattress, before lying back. "It's actually – it's actually comfortable." She smiles at Carl, then me. "Check it out."

Carl steps forward, I don't move from the door, and if he gets in bed with her, I swear to God –

But no. Carl touches the top bunk, getting on his tippy toes to get a better look at it. I should have known better but Carl has a crush on Beth, I know he does. I guess that's understandable.

Suddenly, Hershel appears in the doorway next to me and I have to bite back a smile. The old man's eyes go to Carl. "You find a cell yet?"

Carl turns to him, letting go of the bunk. "Ye-Yeah. I was just, um, making sure Beth was safe." he lies.

Snorting, I move away from the cell and after the boy stutters out some sort of goodbye, he joins me.

"So, uh," He stops me at the base of the steps. "You wanna bunk together?"

Oh. I'm his second choice, I see.

"Carl . . ." I sigh, shaking my head. "Go find your cell. _Own cell."_

His face changes. "Oh. O-Okay." And then he turns, stumbling away into a cell on the bottom level near Beth's. _Of course._

I end upstairs, two cells down from the perch, and near Carol and Lori.

Dumping my bag onto the ground, I take off my quiver, lean my bow up against the wall, and remove the knife from my boot. This'll be the first time in ages that I'll be able to sleep without any of my weapons and it feels weird. I let myself fall back on the bottom bunk with my still-rolled-up sleeping bag in my lap. I lean back, let out a noise from my lips that sounds like a horse snorting. It has been a long journey getting to this point.

Daryl comes into view at the door as I roll back my stiff shoulders. "Good?" he asks.

I grin, nod, "Good."

And he knows I mean it so he says, "Try an' get some sleep, you hear?"

"Loud and clear,"

"Alright . . ." He goes to leave but then comes back. "I'm right out here, 'member, "

"'Kay . . ." I mutter sleepily moments after he's gone.

I end up falling asleep with the sleeping bag still in my lap because I'm too worn out and sore to care.

And this place is too calm to care what I do either.

* * *

_"It's late in the night._

_It's late in the night for a start._

_It's quiet again._

_Too much for noise to go on to. _

_. . ._

_Waiting for something to break this calm."_

_~ Patrick Watson: Noisy Sunday_

* * *

**Yes, I used a song from The Walking Dead soundtrack. In fact, I used the song that was played in the exact scene at the end of this chapter. **

**It's one of the best of season three's soundtrack, in my opinion.**

**~ Rainy**


	5. Chapter 4: Bittersweet

***I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

Chapter 4: Bittersweet

The world greets me early the next day and I usually rise with the sun, so I don't complain.

It's quiet in the cell block when I first step out. Sunlight streams through the slits in the barred windows and a coolness flows throughout the air. Trash still litters the floor – some of it has been kicked off to the side by now – but that's okay. It will get picked up eventually when we clean up and calm down and settle in and start to build a home.

We are going to pick up the pieces of this group that have slowly began cracking over the chilly fall and deathly freezing winter, and carefully place them back together. It might take time and we may cut ourselves on the sharp edges while building, but Rick will lead us home – I'll give him the credit. And these thoughts, these probably-too-grownup-for-a-kid thoughts, they form because I learned quickly what the hardships of life were early on. I also experience the failing state that the world has fallen in every day and maybe _– just maybe – _I should cut back on the reading of most-likely-suited-for-older-readers books that are smashed down between a shirt and a flashlight in my backpack; even though there are only two of them. I haven't been able to really get into the books having only read barely a quarter of the Stephen King's thrilling short story and just a chapter of the other book – "Of Mice and Men" by: John Steinbeck – and this is true because it is hard to focus when danger could be lurking around the next bend. But nonetheless, books themselves make me _think. _

And that leads to the thoughts.

Which are, more often than not, dark or suited for an older person.

Setting my thoughts aside, the quietness quickly dies off and sound fills the space as I make my way down to where most of our small group stands.

We got to keep pushing on_, always, _and I know that all too well. Whatever ammunition we have is out and people are gearing up. Rick is helping T-dog put on body armor that they stole from a dead body, Daryl is fiddling with his crossbow scope. The plan is to go down in the tombs – that's what T-dog called the unexplored dark corridors – and find the armory, infirmary, cafeteria – whatever we need to help us keep going for a little while longer. I don't even make a move to gather anything because I know I am not tagging along, not this time. From the looks of it, Rick, Daryl, T-dog, Glenn, Maggie, and Hershel are taking this one. Not Carl, though, because he's my partner and we stick together. Only on rare occasions is that statement untrue.

And this isn't a rare occasion.

Speaking of the boy, he's to my left and I watch as he puts on a riot helmet where his Sheriff hat should be. Bowing his head, the hard hat slides off and Carl catches it. He then grins, dirt sprinkled on his cheeks, and I spot Beth smiling back.

And if looks could kill, someone would be dropping dead from my green eyes right now.

Rick extends an arm and takes the black helmet from his son. "You won't need that," Carl holds out his hands, palm up. He's confused. "I need you to stay put."

"You're kidding . . ."

Well, he should know by now if I'm not going than he's not either . . .

"We don't know what's in there." Rick reasons as Carl positions the Sheriff hat back where it belongs. "Something goes wrong; you could be the last man standing. I need you to handle things here."

The boy nods, eyes moving from his father to the rest of us. _"Sure."_

Our leader turns, eyes on me now because he hasn't forgotten the done-deal partnership established long ago. "Just make sure – "

"You got it." I interrupt because I already know the drill, it's always the same.

Rick nods those drawn-out nods that he does a lot, Carl mirrors it sometimes. He turns back around. _"Great." _My ears pick up on the chiming jingle of keys knocking into one another and then Carl is holding the ring to all of the keys that work in this cell block. "Let's go."

And as they go Lori comes out of her cell and stands at the second floor's railing, one hand on her belly. Rick gazes up at his wife, his eyes softening for a moment like they used to when he would see her, and then he is gone with the other five. Carl securely locks the peeling, barred door behind them and Beth, Carol, and I crowd around it. Carol squeezes Beth's shoulder reassuringly, Carl clips the keys to his belt, and Lori stays by the railing.

It's just us for now.

* * *

Carl and I – we're a few feet away from the still-locked door and are sitting in a spot we cleared of trash. My bow is resting beside my right leg, close enough to easily grab, and Carl has his gun his lap, both silencer and safety on.

"So," I say, resting my back and head against the gray wall. "you went from Sheriff to Leader in one day . . . How's it feel?"

Carl is the closest to the door and he hasn't taken his eyes off of it this whole time, doesn't even now. "I hate it." I raise my eyebrows. _Really?_ He finally turns, the hat is low. "You – you heard my dad, right? What he said – I can't be _that."_

_Last man standing. _

"And you won't have to." I tell the boy, pulling my bow into my lap. "They'll be okay_, I know, _all six of them will be."

They have to; at least, because reality is mean and if they were never to return, we'd die. Not necessarily because of Carl, no, but because of the rules. _Survival of the fittest._

He pushes the hat up so I can see the blue eyes he shares with his father. "You really think that?"

I nod.

And after a moment of internal conflict within him, he nods back.

And our nods, our unworded actions that we have developed over time, are something not even Beth can drag away. Like the role the word _good _plays between Daryl and I, the nods between Carl and me are more than what they seem. And the only reason the others going off into the tombs is so hard right now is because after all this time on the road . . . everyone was _always together. _We barely separated and if we did, we stayed close to one another. This group is tightly sewn together, I'll admit to it, and perhaps it is for the best.

You need people now.

Lori and Carol are descending the stairs now and then they disappear off somewhere else. Carl is back to watching the barred prison-like door and I ask him, "Talk to your mom yet?"

A lot has been going on with the Grimes family lately and Carl and I talk, so I'm no stranger to it. Rick hates Lori – even though he never admitted to it – and Carl can't stand her.

"You didn't talk to yours much." he shrugs, not seeming to give a damn about the topic.

We all know what happened with Anna . . .

"Not like I had a choice, Carl, she _left me."_ I pause, I'm over that now. I'm over Mom and Dad and Payton and Mr. and Mrs. Ellington – _everyone. _"You do, though, and I'm sure she'd like to hear from you. Especially with the baby on the way,"

Carl doesn't answer and maybe he doesn't want this baby anymore, so I give up – run a finger over my bowstring. "Fine. _Whatever."_

A moment passes. A sigh from Carl. "I mean – "

_" – He's losing too much blood – "_

A voice, Maggie's voice, and then there is clanking of metal and an explosion of frantic voices in the next room over. I'm on my feet before I know it, bow ready, and Carl is up, too.

"Open the door! It's Hershel!" yells Rick, I don't see him yet. Don't see anyone. Carl and I are jogging and then Lori, Carol, and Beth are scrambling out from wherever they were. _"Carl! River!"_

Carl and me – we're here, at the door, and he's struggling with the key; shaky hands. The door swings open, getting pushed aside, and I all see is bright red blood as Hershel is wheeled in on a cart of some sorts. The old man doesn't seem to be conscious.

And that's when I realize his right leg, from his toes down to his kneecap, is missing. _Gone. _There is nothing left but a raw stump spewing out blood and the memory of two legs being there no more than a half hour ago.

"Oh my God . . ."

T-dog closes the squeaky door, going back into the other room. I don't see Daryl but as Hershel is quickly moved into the closest cell and lowered down on the bottom bunk, I can only assume he's alright.

Rick explains that Hershel got bit and he chopped off the leg to stop the infection from spreading. I've never seen anything like that performed before, but it makes sense – yes, it does – and good leader, good Rick, good call, good judgment . . .

Too bad this situation is far from good.

Carol needs more bandages, towels, anything – Glenn says we already used everything we got. Lori is prepared, though, and she sends Carl and me to retrieve some extra towels upstairs in her cell.

The rest is a blur.

Running, hurrying, shouting, talking, crying, worrying – that's as best as I can describe it.

Until I hear a voice I've never heard before coming right from the next room, our backyard pretty much.

_"Hey, this is my house, my rules! I go where I damn well please!"_

We all turn. Beth asks what _that _was.

Rick turns to us, gripping the doorway. "Prisoners, survivors – "

_"What?" _Glenn gasps. My eyes widen.

"It's alright. Everybody stay put."

But that's hard for a curious kid like me to do and Carl has the key so we run out with Rick after he discusses possibilities with Glenn; locking the door behind him. The voices followed us the whole way but only now by the door can I really hear them.

"There ain't nothin' for ya here!" Daryl's voice is the first one I pick apart from the yelling. He's okay. "Why don't you go back to your own sandbox and – "

_"Hey, hey, hey!" _Rick barges in, barking. Carl and I stay by the door. We can't see anything but listening is just as good; reminds me of eavesdropping with Jimmy at the screen door during the Randall debate. "Everyone relax. There's no need for this."

"How many of you in there?" it's the same voice from earlier and there's something about it that I just don't like.

"Too many for you to handle."

That sets the stage for the brewing conversation and Carl and I share a look – we're gonna stay and tune in.

The voice goes back to questioning, "You guys rob a bank or something? Why don't you take him to a hospital?"

_Hershel. _

_"What?" _I ask to no one really and so much air comes out with the word that it becomes nothing short of a whisper. If there was a hospital Hershel would be there by now.

There is a pause and just when I start to think that Rick, Daryl, or T-dog heard my confused whisper, Rick speaks, "How long have you been locked in that cafeteria?"

So they found them in the cafeteria. Makes sense, I guess. Food, water, shelter . . . sounds like a nice little setup.

There is a bit of rustling. "About ten months."

That's longer than we were on the road by two months so before then the prison must've of still been intact.

"A riot broke out." another voice, another inmate. This one sounds less threatening. "Never seen anything like it."

A third inmate talks and sounds more southern like my group is, "Attica on speed, man." _Whatever that means . . ._

"Ever heard about dudes going cannibal, dying, coming back to life?" a fourth one asks. Jeez, how many of these guys are there? _"Crazy."_

We call it _reality._

The threatening voice returns, "One guard looked out for us, locked us up in cafeteria. Told us, 'sit tight' – threw me this piece,"

"They have guns." I whisper to Carl. He swallows and a second later my ears pick up on the clicking sound of the safety on his gun being switched off.

" – said he'd be right back."

"Yeah, and that was two-hundred-ninety-two days ago." There is a fifth prisoner. I notch a fresh arrow into my weapon of choice.

_"Ninety-four." _corrects the more southern one. "According to my cal – "

_"Shut up!" _the threatening one that I now know has a gun hisses. He seems to be the leader around here.

"We were thinkin' that the Army or the National Guard should be showing up any day now." states the fifth inmate. They're betting on the horse with a broken leg.

And Rick tells them that, not in those exact words, no, but he says that there is no army, government, hospitals, police . . . All that protection, all that authority is _gone. _The prisoners start to ask about family members we don't know and probably never will because those people are most likely dead.

"Yo, you – you, uh, got a cell phone or something that we can call our families?"

"You got to be kidding me . . ." I mutter. How can they not understand?

"Talk about living under a rock," Carl mutters back.

_"Oh yeah."_

"You just don't get it, do you?" Daryl questions and they don't, these formal inmates really _don't._

"No phones. No computers." Rick adds to the growing pile of what we used to have. "As far as we can see, at least half the population has been wiped out. Probably more."

We are just the leftovers that got bittersweet lucky.

* * *

Carl and I return to the cell to find out that the bleeding of Hershel's stump has slowed but not stopped. He'll need crutches if he lives, Carol decides that, and I try not to think about it all too much. But standing here looking down at our unconscious, pale, old vet with his insides sticking out and bloody sheets surrounding his body, I can't help but not.

You can't run from reality or time. None of it works.

Lori dips a bloody cloth into a bucket of water sitting on the broken sink. "Right now we could use some antibiotics and painkillers . . . some sterile gauze."

"There's gotta be an infirmary here." says Carol, still trying to stop the blood.

Lori puts the cloth down on Hershel's forehead. That action and me are old friends because it took days for me to break my fever. Cold, wet cloths and even snow was used; anything to help stop the virus inside of me that my body was trying so desperately to fight. "If there is, we'll find it."

And that's the last thing I hear before Carl pulls me out into the hallway.

I give him a confused glare as he lets go of my arm. The boy talks lowly, making sure no one else can hear, "Carol said that there has to be an infirmary and we already know what we need,"

I know where this is going. I can already feel the bitter bite from the snow on my skin. "Carl – "

"We have maps, River!" he exclaims, gritting his teeth, and going as loud as he dares. A second ticks by before Carl speaks again, quieter, _"We have maps . . . _You and me – we'll find it."

I shake my head, can still feel that snow. _"Last time – "_

"This won't be like last time, okay?"

"How can you be so sure?"

"Food's here!" calls T-dog's voice and this gains my attention because when do we ever have food? The snow feeling is gone now. Carl dashes up to the door and opening it, T-dog and Rick step through with boxes and bags of food. _Whoa._

"What you got?" Carl asks, locking the door behind them and T-dog replies as they venture further into the cell block,

"Canned beef, canned corn, canned cans . . ." the man lists off. "There's a lot more where this came from."

_"Seriously?"_ I question, surprise added to my tone.

"Positive."

This would be considered a good day if Hershel wouldn't be in the state he is. Bittersweet, oh, how everything is so bittersweet . . .

I jog with Carl to the end of the hall. T-dog is waiting for Rick, readjusting the boxes in his arms a bit.

Carl asks when we get close enough, "Need help with that?"

_"Yeah . . ."_

Carl takes one box while I take the other. Rick hands over the two other bags to T-dog and then we set everything down in an empty cell.

"Me and River can sort it." Carl informs T-dog. I can hear Rick and Lori chatting.

The man nods. "Alright, cool. Got some other things to deal with at the moment anyways,"

And then he's gone, and so are the voices coming from outside.

I pick up a can of peaches from inside one of the boxes, examine it. "Damn, that's a lot of food . . ." More than I've seen in months.

"Yeah." Carl agrees. Some more time passes. "So are we going to do this or what?"

I know what he's talking about and it's not the wonders of sorting canned food. _"Now?" _

He nods.

Sighing, I put the can down. Carl wins, of course he does. "I'll go get my bow,"


	6. Chapter 5: Feeling

***I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

Chapter 5: Feeling

Carl and I sneak out of the cell block's back entrance.

We open the barred door only enough for us to squeeze our bodies through because it would squeak on its hinges otherwise. The others think we are organizing the food, Carl's still got the keys, and we have a battered, yellow-stained map he managed to somehow retrieve from the warden's office to aid us in navigating through this maze.

The odds are in our favor today.

_Left, right, left, right. Gray wall, gray floor, gray ceiling, no windows – it's kind of stuffy. _The thick-aired hallway we are going down is the same as the last, every turn we make runs together to create one big blob in my brain. Breathing and footfalls are the only sounds in earshot; our weapons aimed and loaded out of pure uncertainty.

Carl, however, has that damn map – which this whole trip is relying on – and he gestures around the next bend. The infirmary is close.

But before Carl and I can take the next corner, a very distinct and familiar noise is heard and we both press up against the wall.

A moment of nothing passes. I swallow; draw another breath, before we make brief eye contact because maybe we're just losing our minds together. But then the breathy groan lost in space sounds again and it becomes a reality.

I mouth one word to the boy in front of me as our bodies tense up: _Walker?_

He watches, thinks, and then his head is peering around the corner.

Carl holds up two fingers when he returns to me. _Two walkers. _

At least we're not outnumbered.

Carl is the leader here, I am the follower, and I wait for him to advance forward so we can get the job done. It's when he never does, though, that pulls me up short.

"Ladies first." he says, quiet enough so the danger won't hear – well, I guess actually states – and this lures a faint grin out of me.

"Quite the gentleman," I tell him as I pass.

My bow is silently lowered down to the hard floor and my knife replaces it. Creeping forward, I take in the two gurgling walkers wearing blue jumpers as they stumble about; still unaware of their visitors. This time can't be like the last winter run, I won't let it get that bad – I also can't risk an arrow.

The geek I am after is close enough to touch.

And that's when the thing realizes that it has company – right on schedule – and lets me know with a snarl. The snarl is my signal and as the freak reaches down to me, freaking out because it is starving, I take the opportunity to stab it right between the eyes. Just like I was taught.

Funny how you can teach somebody to kill. Just . . . like . . . that . . .

As my kill quiets down, I remove the blade and the frozen body falls lifelessly to the ground. Throughout the commotion, however, he alerted his buddy, but this is where Carl comes in and he shoots down the remaining walker; his makeshift silencer smothering the shot. The corridor settles back down to the quiet. Carl and I do our nod and then he moves back to pick up my discarded weapon, handing it to me as I resheath the knife. The boys' eyes hold question.

"Had to be quick," I answer, slowing my heart that I didn't even realize was moving so fast. My finger brushes the light feather at the non-pointy tip of one arrow. "Waste of an arrow, anyways." Because we talk and are friends, Carl knows that my arrows aren't as strong as they used to be. The dainty wood has rotted a bit over time from rain and snow and just overall usage. It happens, I guess, but the daggers that make my weapon of choice actually dangerous are harder to come by as the last bits of civilization we used to have wither away. Can't say I miss much of my old life and "family", but sometimes when it gets quiet I replay memories and yeah, I do. I do miss climbing into Dad's truck that I named Old Blue – no idea why, maybe because it was blue – and putting in one of our rock band's CD's. I do miss Mom's smile and laugh, her Saturday morning pancakes, too; even though sometimes she burned them. I also miss playing with the neighborhood kids because they didn't care what your background was; they just wanted to have fun. There were five of us and we'd meet up by Jake's tire swing and figure out what game to play that day. And sometimes_, sometimes, _I even miss school with its hard math problems and snotty girls because it was all I knew – all of it was.

But King County is gone and so are all of those people.

And I have to focus and pay attention to what the world is _now_ without Mom and Dad and the neighborhood kids and school.

Oh, how my mind wonders . . .

We come to some doors and Carl says that the destination is on the left, second one down. It's locked, I pick it because Carl's keys are just for everything in cell block C, and then we move into the unknown; set on high alert.

The infirmary is clear, guess they kept it locked up tight, but neither of us confirms this until every nook and cranny is checked. The floor is covered in trash like every other floor in this godforsaken prison, cabinets hang open – some are even off their hinges – sinks are loose, and dried blood stains some areas of the room; I try to ignore it and the feeling in the pit of my stomach it brings. It is not pitch black in here because of some high-perched windows, but it still dim so Carl and I bring out the flashlights, skim over what's left.

There is nothing for a while and I can only assume that when inmates started to get bit they tried to "cure them", but then I stumble upon a cabinet stuffed in the back corner and it is like winning the lottery.

_"Jackpot." _I say, taking it all in as my flashlight settles on the medical supplies.

This causes Carl to scamper over to me, an empty bag he took from up front hanging off one shoulder, and his eyes widen. _"Sweet,"_ Looking to him, I notice that his hat is crooked so I fix it. The boy grins at me and my eyes retreat because I'm getting that burning, little feeling I get occasionally with Carl. Taking a second, I bury it like I always do, and then we're grabbing bandages, painkillers, disinfectant, more pill bottles – any other medical things that we may not be sure off, but looks promising, so we swipe it off the shelf.

And then my partner in crime and I finish up our mission by starting back home.

Where I'm sure we will have some explaining to do.

* * *

The back door to the cell block screeches open and closed. Carl's keys jingle, the lock clicks into place. He holds the bag and his gun while I grip my bow. Our footsteps echo throughout the surprisingly quiet cell block as we walk down the line of cells and under the perch.

Glenn peeks his head out from Hershel's cell, arms crossed. "Thought you were organizing the food?" He sounds stressed, has every reason to be, and handling the food was what we Carl and me were supposed to do. _Supposed to. _

Carl smirks as we approach the open cell. "Even better."

"Check it out," I tell the others as the two of us come in and Carl sets the bag down, its contents spilling out. Carol, Lori, Maggie, Glenn, and Beth looked confused at first, but then they look down it and it all soon changes.

Carol gasps, reaches into the dull-colored bag. I bring a thumb to my mouth even though I know so, so, so much that I shouldn't. "Where did you two get this?"

I lean back on the wall; coolly holding the bow in one hand while still nibbling on my limb with the other. Carl answers, telling the truth, and says that we went down to the infirmary. The women have crowded around the bag, now, treating it like gold.

"Wasn't too much left," I gesture to the supplies with my bow, not moving the thumb from my teeth. "but we cleared it out."

Lori's eyes widen but not for a good reason. "You went by yourselves? Just the two for you?" I remove my thumb; starting to feel a bit like we were in the wrong here because of what happened last time we went off by ourselves. Carol is rapidly moving bandages over Hershel's stump, but I look away because I don't want to see that.

"Yeah." another honest answer from Carl.

We have managed to grab Maggie's attention here now, too, and her eyes are big.

_"Are you crazy?" _Lori breathes.

I guess so.

"No big deal. We took out two walkers."

The real kicker is, though, that it actually does sound like a big deal with these wide eyes and accusing stares and harshly-toned words.

Lori panes over Hershel's limp body, holds her hand up. "Alright – do you see this? _This _was with the whole group!"

It's not just Carl but me, too, and maybe I should say sorry but I can't – I just _can't._

"We needed supplies so River and me, we got them." His voice rises in tone a tad.

"And I appreciate that, but – "

_"Then get off our backs!" _

Oh, Carl . . .

"Carl!" this is Beth, snapping in from her position on the floor between her sister and the medicine bag. Her father might not be doing so well and tears may still stain her face slightly, but she doesn't belong in this conversation; I know that. "She's your mother. You can't talk to her like that."

Maybe or maybe not, I don't know the guidelines to speaking to your mom.

Carl sighs. Lori starts talking again, calmer, "Listen, I think it's great you wanna help – "

But those words fall short because then Carl is running out. I follow him; let the look on my face do all the talking. It doesn't take long to find the boy, no, I seek him out in his cell a few doors. He stands the middle of the room – fists pulled into tight balls – when I come into his space, not knocking because we're past that now. Carl's eyes are on the dull wall and walls know all of your secrets because they are with you behind closed doors.

I prop my bow up against the door frame, move a step closer; or one more – my feet stop at three. His two blue eyes are still dead-locked at that wall; the hat sits low and frames his face.

"Look, I'm sorry about Beth." I say, waiting afterwards for something, anything, from him. _Nothing. Try again. _"She can get kind of bitchy but – "

"Don't call her _that!"_ Carl shuts me up, voice climbing straight up to a yell. He turns away from the wall and faces me. "Don't even bring her up, okay, _don't . . ."_

He is being so defensive and this is when I am certain that Carl has a thing – a crush – for Beth. It's being waved in front of my face, shoved down my throat. _He likes Beth. _

I swallow, talk careful and calm like Lori, "Carl – "

But just like Lori, I get thrown away, too. "You wanted me to talk to my mom so badly, you got what you wanted. _Just be happy."_

Carl's voice is soft and stinging and I am not happy, far from it actually.

My feet skid back a step, arms going from crossed to down. "Dammit, Carl . . ." I point. _"You – and you – you – " _I have no clue where my words are taking me, but I don't want any of this so I flee; snatching my bow up in the process.

And that little burning feeling, it gets buried even further down than ever before.

Six feet under my heart made of stone.

* * *

Hershel stops breathing an hour later.

Another reminder that most efforts and fights are for nothing.

Beth is screaming, Maggie is crying, and me, well, I'm just standing emotionless at the door; green eyes full of sorrow. Carl is beside me – not that I care – and this is when Lori swoops in and begins useless CPR on the old man. Glenn and Carol are outside and too far away to hear our cries of distress.

The two sisters hold each other and sob. Lori is pounding on Hershel's chest, blowing air into his mouth; there is no life left in the body.

So this is what it looks like when someone just dies naturally – doctors surrounding their motionless body and trying desperately with the zappy thing to bring them back.

But when Lori goes to blow air into Hershel's lungs for the second time, his arm not cuffed to the bed reaches up and grips her hair.

I don't think. My brain stops, maybe even my heart as well, but my bow is aimed before any other reaction is expressed.

And I almost let that arrow fly between my fingers; too, as Lori springs back into Maggie and Beth's arms and Carl raises up his gun.

That is until I notice Hershel's eyes are normal and not too far gone.

* * *

Ten minutes later, and Glenn is back. Carol is absent, though, and he says that she's working on something. Five more minutes and then the door is squeaking again and Rick, Daryl, and T-dog appear.

"Hershel stopped breathing," Carl informs his father as they join him, Glenn, and me at the cell entrance. "Mom saved him."

Rick looks to me for clarification and I nod, "Yeah . . ."

Our leader takes the keys from his son and enters the cell, T-dog following. Daryl stays close and Lori states that there is yet for any fever to be detected on Hershel.

The fever always comes second.

First is the bite.

There is some mumbles from the old, one-legged man, people crowd around – not me – and then his blue eyes open.

_Alive._

* * *

**So I recently started school back up again (last week actually) and life has been pretty hectic. I am going to try to strive for an update every weekend or so, but we all know how that goes . . .**

**Also, since it seems people are starting to ship River and Carl I have set their ship name to be Rarl. It could be Civer, too, but personally I like Rarl better. :)**

**~ Rainy**


	7. Chapter 6: Eruption

***I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

Chapter 6: Eruption

Daryl comes to me after things calm down.

Judging by the high-barred windows, it's about nightfall when he steps into my cell that he refers to as a cage. Carol informed him about the infirmary run Carl and I went on, I'm not surprised. And I wish I could treat the topic like it matters as Daryl explains to me why we don't go off alone anymore, scolding me without trying, but I just can't. Hershel was dying, we acted, and now he's alive. That should be enough.

It is not enough, though, not when you got the winter to look back on.

Not when I scared the hell out of Daryl – the others, _me . . ._

My argument? Well, I tell the man that I was careful; on guard. Didn't waste an arrow, stayed close to my partner, checked every nook and cranny, did what I was supposed to and taught – nothing more, nothing less. And he listens, Daryl does, and he always will. The whole conversation is calm and patient and careful.

In the end I am in the wrong. I don't argue; no point. It's better to just accept it for what it is.

Daryl warns me that I'll get the bow taken away if I pull another stunt.

_Yeah, right . . ._

I ask how long, he says however long it needs to be or until he feels like giving my weapon back.

But it was Carl's idea – _whatever._

* * *

It's morning and that talk seems irrelevant now. _Irrelevant. _That word was in one of my books a few weeks back. I asked Carol about it, she told me, and the definition stuck. Living seems irrelevant most of the time.

I sit on the steps with Carl. He's tinkering with his silencer because apparently it is jammed. Rick, Daryl, T-dog, Carol, Glenn, and Maggie went out to move the cars. Lori and Beth left to look around for some crutches and it's okay if they leave to do something because they're older. I wonder when this kid shit will ever stop; probably won't live to see the day. Hershel is in his cell, I haven't seen the crippled man since yesterday.

I left my bow in my cell and I miss it now. I need something to do. Shoving my hands in my jacket pockets, I look down at the floor. We cleaned up this morning, doesn't look so bad now. I guess this place could actually be something. It is just a little run-down . . . _like us. _

Carl continues to fool with the baseball bat he uses as a silencer because to find a real silencer is rare these days. A wave of annoyance passes over me. The metal noises are agitating, the no talking is agitating, Carl in the flesh is even agitating. I know how he feels.

Footfalls sound on the concrete floor, shadows appear, and I look up to see Beth and Lori. The second woman, Lori, is carrying something. I'll be damned . . . they actually found crutches, real ones, too. I've only ever needed crutches once because when I was eight I sprained my ankle playing tag at recess. I thought crutches were cool but in reality, they're just a pain in the ass. And then the year before that I broke my wrist because I fell out of a tree during an intense round of hide and go seek. I wasn't exactly careful when I was younger but after a few trips to the doctors, I learned to decline some of the dares Jake, Asher, or Ben challenged me with. They were the reason I was in that tree in the first place. Payton never dared me to do anything, no, but she wasn't exactly a chicken either.

Beth smiles at both Carl and me. She's a sweet girl, hard for me to be mad at her.

They both disappear into Hershel's cell. Carl jumps up, I follow.

"Alright . . ." says Lori when I make it to the doorway. She sets the crutches down beside the older man's bedside. Hershel is lying down on the bottom bunk and he gazes up at us for a moment. Reaching up, he grabs the bars on the top bunk and pulls himself up with a grunt. Instead of two legs spilling off the side of the bed there is one. It is a bit strange looking at Hershel with his right pant leg half empty, but it will become a norm eventually. Just like dead people trying to eat you are.

Lori informs Hershel to take his time as he grips the crutches, still sitting on the bunk. His youngest daughter warns him not to push himself.

Hershel sighs, standing, "What else am I going to do?" Lori and Beth help him position himself on the crutches correctly, right under both armpits. "Can't stand looking at the bottom of that bunk any lon – " The old vet attempts to take a step forward, but he is very wobbly so he stumbles back instead.

_"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa . . ."_

There is a pause as the two women steady him. Hershel taps the bottom of the crutches a few times on the floor before he moves forward again, slowly – one step, two steps; he inches closer to Carl and me.

"You know," he announces. "I think I'm pretty steady."

Hershel clanks closer to the door. I back up a few steps to give him room.

There is a rare grin spread across Lori's lips as she looks down at his feet – _foot. _"That's a good start. Take a rest?"

_"Rest?" _he chuckles. "Let's go for a little stroll."

I'm glad I never let that arrow fly yesterday.

* * *

Stepping outside, the sun is warm on my skin and the air is fresh in my lungs. The vehicles are in the courtyard rather than down by the gate and they move in reverse a few yards away from us, tires crunching across the pavement. We help Hershel down the stairs and through the rusty gate, leaving it propped open. Steel bleachers are positioned on my left and basketball hoops stand tall around this space. They probably have not been used in a long while, though, suggesting by the grimy state they are in.

Hershel swings himself forward as we venture into the courtyard some more, the crutches clanking with every step. He seems to be getting the hang of it.

Lori settles her hand on his shoulder; the older man takes in the surroundings. "You cleared all those bodies out," he observes. "It's startin' to look like a place we could really live in."

We did a lot of housekeeping this morning and perhaps Hershel is correct, we could really _live _here for a long time; longer than other places before.

Lori is focused on Hershel's leg. She's overdue for her baby, I can tell by the baby bump, and she holds her back as we walk. "Hey, you watch your step." she cautions Hershel. "Last thing we need is you fallin'."

That would be bad.

_"Alright, Hershel!" _

I snap my head up to see Glenn down by the far fence, hands cupped around his mouth. Rick and Daryl are with him, too, firewood at their feet. I keep my green eyes locked on the three of them for a little longer and watch as Daryl's mouth moves, he points to some walkers ambling from beyond the fence, near the tree line.

They always figure out a way to mess everything up . . .

The five of us have trekked though most of the courtyard by now, and we're almost to a stopping point. Beth informs her dad that he is doing great and he is, really, _he truly is._

"Ready to race, Hershel?" Carl asks.

I add, "I'm in on this one."

"Give me another day . . ." he breathes. "I'll take you both on."

Carl laughs, grinning at me. I smile back – telling myself to just be nice – but it turns out a lot less forced than was intentioned.

_I can't be mad . . . not at him, nor at Beth. If he likes her, so be it. Perhaps it's the way it is supposed to be._

Over to my far right Carol climbs out of the red station wagon. She says something to T-dog, beaming. Maggie is with them as well.

We stop walking, stand in a line instead. We're facing the three down at the fence and I go to grab my quiver strap, but it's not there. Left both that and my bow in my cell. _Darn._

I make eye contact with Daryl. We nod at each other from a far.

Scratch yesterday – today will be a good day.

_"Walkers!" _

Too bad reality won't allow it.

* * *

The courtyard erupts into chaos.

Carl was the one who sounded the alarm and my head whips to him. He's facing the other direction, looking at something; staring. Whirling around, my eyes lay upon a few of many, many walkers that are pouring out from around the corner. This place was supposed to be secure, a home, and – and now there is too many danger hazards to count staring me down in the face. There was a breach, had to have been, but how? _When? _

_When _doesn't matter, though, _now _does.

The drooling freaks are stumbling closer and I jump up on a set of bleachers with Carl. My bow is gone, abandoned in my own cell, and I am panicking. Arrows would do little to help us out here but it is my backup, plan B. _Crap, crap, crap!_

Taking out my handgun, I check the bullets. There is not a whole lot left but a decent amount, I snap the chamber back into place; click the safety off. Everything is happening so quickly.

We're gonna run out of ammo.

The gunshots pierce the air like a choir – boom, boom, boom. I join in, killing a biter here and there, and our once clean courtyard becomes a battlefield again.

_"No!" _Rick is screaming. I allow myself to sneak a peek for a split second while my partner has my back to see him, Daryl, and Glenn sprinting down the fenced walkway. _"Get out of there! Now!" _

The things are getting too close for comfort, won't stop coming, and I abandon the bleachers, yanking Carl with me.

We manage to get split up, however, after he goes left and I head right to dodge some walkers. Beth and Hershel retreat to a caged area that looks safe enough, T-dog says something about a gate, my arms are stinging, ears are ringing, and I know – oh, I know – my bullets are limited. _Make them count. _

After more running and screaming and gunshots Maggie, Lori, and Carl disappear. I catch a glimpse of the three of them getting smothered by the cell block's darkness as the door closes and my mind figures that _home _is the only other option at this point.

T-dog is at the gate in the far corner, which is where _they_ are coming from, and I get why he talked about the object earlier. I venture closer, weaving in and out of walkers. Carol is to my right – just went around a pillar – and that is when I notice a scrawny walker advancing on T-dog as he locks the gate into place.

_"T!" _I shout, hoping there is still enough time.

There isn't.

The walker growls, grabs T-dog's shoulder, and clamps down.

I act – no hesitating this time.

The man with a now gaping hole in his right shoulder yells in pain as the geek clings to him. He manages to push the thing down off of him and I empty three rounds into its head. Carol screams _no. _

And then I'm all out of bullets.

Carol runs to a red door, says to hurry. Before I can move, however, T-dog grabs one of my arms.

"Listen," he swallows, the hand not gripping me covering his shoulder. The blood has started to seep through his shirt. "Me and Carol will take this way, but you have to go back with the others. We'll meet you in the cell block."

I – I don't understand . . . "But – "

Releasing my arm, T-dog aims his gun with his good arm, empties the chamber to kill the three walkers blocking the caged cell block steps. He slams the gun down on the pavement, pushing me forward. "Go, kid, _go!" _T-dog's teeth are clenched tight. He is enduring a lot of pain, I can tell. _"Get out of here!"_

I break into a sprint, only letting up to unlatch the cage door. Walkers begin to approach, but I have the door closed and am stumbling up the steps before they can even get close. My fingers latch onto the red door – the entrance to the cell block – and I glide it back to reveal only more walkers. The biter closest to me stretches its arms out, snarling, and I quickly lodge a knife into its head. Pushing the thing's lifeless body back, my actions give me time to slam the door closed.

Afterwards, I sink down to the cement, my back up against the door. _Breathe._

_One . . . two . . . three . . ._

A couple walkers grab at the chain-link surrounding me, groaning and moaning and growling and snarling.

_Four . . . five . . . six . . ._

More gunshots. Someone is in the courtyard, for the booms are close.

_Seven . . . eight . . . nine . . ._

The biters invading my space fall down. I hear faint talking.

_Ten._

Rick appears from the other side of my enclosure. His voice comes through, "Where's everyone else? Lori, Carl – "

"T was bit." that's all I can say.

He pauses, lowers his strong voice. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah."

A siren – an awful siren – choses that time to blare throughout the courtyard. It hurts my ears, sends my heart back into a panic. Rick glances back at two prisoners I've never seen in person before. I thought there were five . . . _"Stay put!" _

I bury my head into my knees as the screaming sirens wear on. The knife in my boot is the only weapon I have left and I can feel it digging into my leg. You can be as strong as you want to be, sure, but everyone still has panic attacks.

Quick and heavy footsteps thud towards me; I peer up to see Rick. He tells me to back up and I skid back into the far corner, still scrunched up in a ball. The man shoots the speaker from up above the cage and it flashes, cracks, some wires falling down in the process. The blaring lessens but it is still there. _It's everywhere._

Our leader rushes back over to the prisoners that Daryl has his crossbow aimed at. Glenn is standing a few feet off. There's talking, nothing I catch, and then Daryl comes over.

Unlike Rick, he throws open the cage door and enters. Kneeling down to my level, he speaks lowly, "You're okay . . . _you're okay . . ." _Daryl carefully encircles his hand over my wrist – the same one I broke when I was seven – and I am starting to feel a little better, but just a little. We stand up together. "You bit, hurt – anythin'?"

I shake my head; we're walking down the steps. "No."

"Good."

_"Good." _I reply.

Daryl leads me over to the other side of the courtyard where Hershel and Beth are in their own cage. He turns to me. "You're gonna stay in here with them for a little while. We'll be back in a bit."

"Okay."

And after I am locked away with the other two for safety reasons, Daryl, Glenn, Rick, and the two other prisoners run off.

This isn't the first time I have had one of my rare panic attacks when Daryl was around.

* * *

Eventually, the sirens are shut off, diminishing into nothing.

A few more minutes after _eventually_, the same five people that went in come out – no new faces.

T-dog and Carol are dead; they found what was left of them. So that's why T pushed me away . . . _he knew._

That just makes it hurt all the more.

We get let out of the cage and Rick asks if anyone came out here, no one did.

Our leader says that we gotta keep looking; that –

Cell block C's door slides open. There are two figures – Maggie and Carl – no Lori. Maggie is holding something wrapped up in a jacket and there is a baby crying.

_Oh no . . ._

Tears run down Maggie's face as they stumble forward, Carl's head is bowed. Blood covers both of their hands and arms.

Rick approaches them, the hatchet he was carrying clanging down to the pavement. Maggie looks at him, lip quivering and red eyes.

Our leader paces. "Where – where is she? _Where is she?" _His voice wavers.

Maggie just sniffles, a breathy cry from the baby.

Carl doesn't move.

I feel horrible.

Rick attempts to walk past Maggie but she grabs his arm, gurgles, "No – Rick, _no!"_

He ignores her, dropping his gun as he reaches his son.

And Rick – well, he sobs.

Something I have never seen him do before.

Kneeling down to Carl who is still emotionless, his face crumbles, chest shaking. "Oh, no – _no, no, no! No . . ." _

Glenn goes to Maggie. The woman holds the baby close as she cries into his chest. Rick sputters, stammering words as he loses control, and falls down to the ground in a wailing heap.

Our leader has been teetering on the edge of a cliff for a while now. It was just the meaning of an eruption to happen for him to lose his balance.

And this is it.

* * *

**Hey, guys, so I have a little announcement to make. Recently, I have been working on a little prequel to this series that contains some snapshots of what exactly happened over the time skip between seasons two and three. **

**If you want to check it out it is titled: "Winter".**

**Thanks. :)**

**~ Rainy**


	8. Chapter 7: Youth

***I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

Chapter 7: Youth

The baby starts to wail after Rick's sobs diminish, crying for its father. He sits up – empty – and stares out into nothing like a walker.

_Mindless: like a walker._

_Not there: like a walker. _

_Blank: like a walker._

But Rick is alive, kind of. He's alive enough.

Daryl steps forward, waves a hand in front of our leader's face, and says _Rick. _

The baby keeps going and I am not sure if a boy or girl is wrapped up in Carl's jacket. There is still blood and stuff covering its small form; whatever else newborns are decorated with when they are brought into the world. Must have been quick . . .

Carl has stumbled over to his younger sibling and Maggie hands the baby off to him. Somehow, the boy knows how to hold it and that makes me wonder. He is _– no, was –_ an only child, so am I. He knows how to hold a baby. I don't. Huh.

"Let me see the baby," Hershel says. I turn slightly to see his face pulled tight. Beth's mouth is ajar, eyes low. The prisoners are in the background.

Carl moves, heading towards us. Hershel is a vet, not a doctor, but he'll know what to do. _He'll know. _I won't, though, not me. I know nothing about babies, especially newborns. Don't know what they do, what they eat, how to take care of them, keep them alive . . . And I'm not sure how we are going to make any of that work in this world. Pure things are not found here. Just broken, bad things.

Daryl gives up on Rick – the man's gone – and comes right up with Carl, Maggie, and Glenn. "What are we gonna feed it?" What do babies even eat? Mush stuff, I guess. We can't give it dog food . . . "Got anythin' a baby can eat?"

Hershel reaches out to the newborn, gingerly unfolding the blanket from its body. "The good news is she looks healthy."

So it's a girl . . . _Oh. _That's what Carl wanted.

The older man turns away from Carl's little sister and looks to Daryl. "But she needs formula . . . and soon or she won't survive." _Formula. _That's what these babies eat, I suppose. Not mush, not dog food – but formula.

"Where are we supposed to find that?" I ask, my voice is weak. I don't have the strength to care.

Hershel looks at me – doesn't say a word – and judging by his eyes, I don't think he knows either.

But he's gotta _. . ._

_"Nope." _Daryl cuts in. "No way – not her." The crossbow is shouldered, there is some ruffling. "We ain't losin' nobody else, I'm goin' for a run."

"I'll back you up." Maggie.

Glenn adds to the list, "I'll go, too."

The baby cries in between words spoken. Daryl is back to talking, "Okay, think where we're goin'. _River –_ " He pulls me off to the side. "Kid's just lost his mom," he tells me in a whispery, low-voice. A word pops up in my head. _Lori. _Daryl flicks his eyes to something over my head. "Dad ain't doin' so hot."

"I got him." I say.

He nods, quick and simple. "I gotta do this run."

"I know."

"You sure you're good?"

"Yes." My eyes lock on to the blood stain smeared across his neck before they go back up to where they're meant to be. "_Good."_

Daryl puts a hand on my shoulder, squeezes. "Alright . . . don't – don't pull any stunts."

I raise the corners of my mouth. It is not a real smile, Daryl and I both know that, but it is for what it's worth. "I won't."

He lets go. Straightening, Daryl touches my head while passing. "You better."

Things happen. The show gets on the road. Daryl yells orders, something about fences, gates – _vãmonos._ Movement catches my attention as Rick jumps up. The man briskly walks forward, face tight, and snatches up the axe he had abandoned for his wife. _His wife who is dead._

Maggie calls our leader's name out as he turns and goes right into the cell block without even closing the door behind him. It is no use. He's not even _there._

Daryl, Glenn, and Maggie jog off; I join the cluster of Carl, the baby, Hershel, and Beth. The gate opens and I look over to see the inmates holding it. One is scrawny and pale, the other, black and muscular.

My green eyes stay on them as I speak, broken-voiced, "I thought there was five."

_"Was." _pointedly answers Hershel, brushing the baby's forehead that has started to quiet a bit.

"Then why are they here?"

_"Forgiveness."_

The bike rumbles to life and Daryl and Maggie roar out of the courtyard. Glenn didn't go, he comes back to us.

"There's a preschool not far from here," Glenn gives away the gone-on-a-run group members positions. His hands settle on his hips. A shaky breath passes, eagle eyes scanning the area. "We should, um, we should do something about _this." _

My gaze wonders lost around the space, taking in things I shouldn't have to.

Death, destruction, loss, walkers, strangers – that belongs to the road.

But these prisoners are wearing stranger's faces _here, _and I am feeling too empty at _home. _

The air is staring to bite but I'll find the strength to keep on keeping on.

Always do.

* * *

We burn most of the bodies.

The walkers are just monsters sporting dead people's bodies so it doesn't hurt to roll them into the flames. But to watch Glenn drag a shovel out into the field and make a mark that isn't for a garden . . . that hurts _– burns – _a lot.

There is nothing left of our three family members so we just bury what we can. Carol's scarf, T-dog's fire poker, one of Lori's many flannels – it is not much because everything that was personal or had some meaning was lost long ago. We don't do funerals anymore.

I sit alone in my cell for a while. Sulking, grieving – I don't know. I just sit and cradle my bow that my hands have missed, mess around with the arrows. The baby cries for something it won't ever get – Lori – and I press the point of an arrow down into my thumb as another scream erupts and bounces off of these four walls. Either the cut is minor or I'm just not thinking about it, but I don't feel much from the weapon.

Carl's little sister's whines become muffled. I wonder if Carol would've liked her. She'd probably see Sophia in her. _Probably. _

I see Anna in dead faces sometimes. Dad and the neighborhood kids, too; sometimes even my sixth grade teacher, Miss Smith. We didn't have school very long before the turn but she seemed nice enough.

Time passes. I read. Of Mice and Men is removed from the depths of my bag and I stare at the dream-like cover of two men sitting in a field, shaded by a tree, before I pick up from where I left off. There is a full stream flowing to their left, a rabbit hiding behind a bush.

What is with these damn rabbits anyways? That Lennie guy always talks about them.

I skim through pages because my brain can't really process words right now. I just need something to keep my mind busy. I end up getting to the part where the old dog dies, shot clean in the head. I stop.

_Three people in one day._

And now a fictional dog that didn't even have a name.

The book falls to the floor, landing face down so some pages sprawl out in weird angles. It is probably going to get bent up but I couldn't care less.

Screw books and their too-happy covers. Screw old dogs and survival of the fittest.

There's a noise. I lift my head up to see Carl standing in the doorway. _Oh._

His hat is there as always and he stands with slouched shoulders, down casted eyes.

The boy comes in without uttering a word. He plops down beside me on the squeaky bed, stares at the wall.

_"I get it."_

Carl's voice cracks that out. I notice his eyes are red, then.

"I get it . . ." he repeats, sniffling and slowly bobbing his head. "I'm sorry."

No, that's what I should be saying. I haven't spoken a word, though.

So I do. "Why?"

_"My mom – " _he starts, but trashes it. "Your mom . . . I never got it; not really, anyways. I do now. It hurts."

Yeah, it does. Like your soul was ripped out of you. I swallow.

More words from Carl, "I was a jerk. To you, to my mom – I'm sorry. I – I should've just listened because now I have a baby sister and I don't – _I can't –_ "

His voice is shaking and struggling to keep balance. He stops, breathes, and then starts again, _"I shot my mom."_ Carl's scratchy voice croaks. He's looking down at his hands. "She was dead – gone – and I shot her just like Shane . . . _It was real."_

I touch his arm to be nice. "Carl – "

"I – I – I'm – " The hat tumbles off and Carl's face buries into my shoulder. I grip his arm because, well, I don't really know why. The boy's body is shaking in dry sobs, chest heaving. My own body is tense and I tell him as he mumbles things into my worn jacket,

"Don't be sorry." My voice is tiny. "We take care of our own, just what we do."

And maybe I'm not making sense of things or words right now, but it's all true.

I told Daryl that I got Carl.

Because it is truly _just what we do._

* * *

It's late when Daryl and Maggie return, for the sky is dark when the cell block door wails open, announcing their arrival.

The commotion wakes the baby up and she starts crying again as Carl holds her close in one of Lori's old shirts. Rick is still down in the tombs, Glenn is out keeping watch with the inmates, and the rest of us have gathered around the circle tables. The baby's sobs make my head rattle.

Maggie calls Beth over to her and they go to a side table where we have a lantern set up. Daryl bounds down the steps, unloading his gear. The poncho lands in my lap and I slip it on, breathe in the material's scent.

Maggie is dumping the contents of her bag out. Daryl asks, "How's she doin'?"

I don't know how babies are supposed to _do_ but looking down at her writhing in Carl's grip, she could be better.

Daryl takes the baby, _shhing _it, and there is not much of a difference. Just a tad.

We all get up. Glenn and the prisoners walk in. My sleeves are pushed up and the poncho is scratchy against my skin, but I don't mind it. Finally, Beth hands a bottle over to Daryl and my head gets relief as the crying stops.

I don't know how Daryl knows how to hold a baby, much less feed one, but it is working. He rocks slowly and slightly, chuckles after a few moments. I lean against the wall beside Carl.

"She got a name yet?" Daryl asks. Oh yeah, I forgot about that part.

"Mmm, not yet." Carl replies, shifting. "I was thinking . . . maybe Sophia?" I remember our conversation on the farm houses' porch, when I told him he couldn't name babies after dead people. I still – I still don't know . . . they're hard blows. "Then there's Carol, too. And . . ." He sighs, twisting around. "Andrea . . . Amy . . . Jacqui . . . Patricia . . . _Anna . . ." _This gains my attention and we make eye contact. He tears away. "Or . . . _Lori – _I don't know."

It's nice of Carl to try but I couldn't live with another Anna. Not after _everything. _

The cold creeps up on me and my arms cross, bringing the poncho closer.

Daryl's eyes slide from Carl down to the baby. It's still suckling on the bottle; he's still rocking, too. _"Yeah . . . _You like that? _Huh?"_ Daryl's tone is that rare low voice that I get occasionally when we talk. He offers the name Little Asskicker because it is a good a name as any. Group members laugh, I barely crack a smile.

It's hard to look into the light when the darkness is so smothering.

Even though I told myself I wouldn't fall down again.

* * *

**Hopefully I did this chapter enough justice.**

**Also (and I know this is not really relevant to fanfiction) I totally suggest that you guys check at the band Sleeping at Last and the singer Matt Corby.**

**It is just a taste of the music I like to listen to since songs got me writing in the first place. **

**Stay awesome. :)**

**~ Rainy**


	9. Chapter 8: Away

***I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

Chapter 8: Away

The night is harder than any day ever will be.

Maybe it is because this cell block feels so empty swallowed whole by the darkness, the only sound being the baby crying because that is all it knows. One of the many times it wakes, I wonder if it knew who Lori was somehow – misses her.

But then the cries cut off, move onto muffled noises, and . . . _nothing._

Just like three of our own are gone – erased – nothing left of them. Empty cells and graves are the only reminders of what was.

Carl comes to me sometime late in the night because people need people after all. His dad is lost with the walkers somewhere.

We sit on the cold concrete floor for the bed is too smothering. There is no talking, just thoughts, and Carl ends up falling asleep with his head propped on my right shoulder, body slumped against mine. I hate touch, but my shoulder is too numb to feel or shy away. And I don't want to move. I might deny these thoughts later on but now I am certain of them.

I don't want to move until morning – I won't.

So I stay and think about Anna, something I haven't allowed myself to do in many months.

* * *

I watch the sun rise through the slits in the barred windows after the night runs its course. I'm sitting scrunched in a ball, back against the wall, and facing the open door – I always end up this way. Carl is sprawled out on the floor – staring up at the ceiling – and he rolled over there hours ago. He has nightmares, I do, too; guess that gives us something in common besides the fact that both of our moms are gone.

The cell block comes to life with a scream as the baby starts up again. Carl goes back to his cell after a few screeches, group members leave because there is always more work to do, and I busy myself with the task of reclaiming my weapons.

Outside seems to be my only friend as I push back the red door and step out into the light. Fresh air travels through my nostrils and I just sigh because I am so, so tired. The courtyard is quiet as I walk on and I need this; to – to get _away. _Inside is _claustrophobic, _I suppose – that's a really weird word –and escape is almost impossible, except for these few moments. This is why I'm still alive, why we keep going.

There are about a dozen bodies that the flames never got to yesterday, even though it seemed like we burned a whole army, and I toe a few with my boot until I find the one I'm looking for. Dislodging the blade from the dead geek, blood squirts out of its decaying head with a squish. My knife is quickly flicked across my worn jeans, clearing the dark liquid, before I put it away. A few minutes later I come across an empty gun on the pavement and the box of bullets I brought out with me is put to good use.

After the gun is fully loaded and all of the weapons are gathered, I still don't return home. In fact, I stall like someone is watching in this ghost town of a place. I check the chamber of the gun, _twice_, test the blades of both of my knives on a finger that I don't care enough to feel, and even notch an arrow into the bow for the heck of it all. I aim like I forgot all of the steps and then slowly pick them up again – one by one.

_Think, look up, make a decision, get a grip, pull back, relax, breathe, fix those shoulders, breathe, don't be an idiot and take your finger off, breathe, go for the brain – breathe._

And in that moment as I aim at nothing and recite what I was taught over and over, I realize just how much I want to go hunting about now. How I want to freely move without being confined, how I really want, no, _need_ to get away from things. For second, for a minute, for an hour . . . I'll return home either way. A bit of time is all I need.

I am broken out of my trance by a faded snarl. The bow lowers. A group of walkers have gathered themselves at the far fence by the lake. I stare for a bit just for the sake of staring and then my eyes eventually travel to the dirt piles with wood crosses positioned smack dab in the middle of our field . . . I look away.

Maybe I'm simply losing my mind because killing is fun like tag once was and a bit of time is all I need. I'll never know.

". . . ver . . . _River!"_

This sends a jolt through my body and I whip around. Daryl is here.

My ears failed me. They didn't hear the noisy door, the approaching footfalls, or even pick up on _River _besides the tail end and a shout.

Daryl is here and my ears failed me.

Both of which I trust.

"River," Daryl tries again and he usually never says my name – unless I'm in trouble or something – so it sounds weird rolling off of his tongue. "breakfast is ready, kid."

He sounds tired, more tired than usual. I don't say anything, not yet, but rather run my hands over the bow in my arms. As I pluck at the string, I mumble, "Not hungry."

Daryl is standing a few feet off and maybe he heard me, perhaps he didn't. The walkers gain his attention for a moment before he comes forward a bit. "Took a while to find ya . . ." he states, slowly and carefully like the word placement really matters this time. "What'cha doin' out here?"

I let the bow go, shoulder it as best I can. My green eyes wander. "I was, um, just – just gathering up."

Daryl eyes the bow I still grip tightly even though it is over my shoulder. "You got all that?"

"No." _Liar._

"Yeah . . ." he sighs out, coming to me. A guiding arm goes around me and I flinch for a second, I do. "Too bad I know you."

And as Daryl walks me back inside to a place I should like – but don't right now – he tells me that I got to eat. _Why?_ Because without food my body will fall even skinnier than it already is, like deathly skinny, and then I will become so weak that I can't do anything. And after that . . . well . . . I'll _die._

Sometimes I can't decide whether the time spent on the road, constantly running, hardened me or just made me all the more weaker.

* * *

I obtain a sad looking red plastic spoon upon entering the cafeteria part of the cell block.

And then an even sadder blob of oatmeal in a bowl is handed off to me. I'll try to at least make an indent.

I don't like oatmeal, hate the mushy substance, but you'll eat anything when you're hungry. Too bad I'm not.

Taking a seat on the steps with Daryl, I push the chalky globs around with my spoon. The baby could possibly eat this . . . it's close enough to formula, right? Beth is holding her now and she's all curled up in a pink onesie. We're gonna need a crib, a name, too. Hershel, Glenn, Maggie, and Carl sit at one of the circle tables with the baby and Beth. One of the former prisoners stands by me, Oscar is his name. The other one – Axel – I'm told is down at the generator room they cleared this morning, trying to fix it. _Good._

Spoons clank on bowls, brief conversations happen from the table. I force myself to eat some oatmeal because Daryl is watching; wash it down with some water from my bottle. I feel like puking. That's the thing about not eating . . . you're body gets so used to nothing that when you give it something it doesn't even want that. Selfless son of a bitch – _stop, River. _

Carl is looking down at his food, arms crossed. He doesn't touch it, doesn't even try to make an indent like me. The brim of the hat is low to hide his face. I stare at the boy as he stares at the food. He's having thoughts, thoughts I've had before . . .

I really need to get out of here.

Daryl's foot nudges my side. _Eat; _his eyes say that. Fine. Sighing, I dig into the oatmeal harder than I should and stick a spoonful in my mouth. Gross.

_"Everybody okay?" _

I hear a voice ask that, I swear I do, but no one in here has spoken out. I start thinking I need new ears because they continue to fall short but after the voice bounces around in my brain for a second, it registers, and I recognize it as Rick. _Rick. _Oh my God . . .

The door squeals open, Rick steps through. People watch as he approaches – I do.

"Yeah, we are." Maggie replies.

In the light, I realize our leader has changed clothes, cleaned up some because the blood is absent from his skin. He looks more put together, I know inside he's not, though. I've been there.

Hershel asks about Rick and like I said, he's not okay . . . which is why he doesn't answer the question.

"Cleared out the boiler block," those are the words instead. Rick's eyes are on his son's.

"How many were there?" questions Daryl.

"I – I don't know. A dozen, two dozen . . . I – I have to get back." His words are drawn out and sloppy. He's unstable.

I quickly go over in my head what exactly Rick has to get back to before I open my mouth, "Is there something down there?"

Rick shakes his head, breathes, _"No." _He reaches out to Carl, pats him on the back. "Just wanted to check on Carl," His son looks down while he does it, still has that look on his face . . . Our leader either doesn't notice or just doesn't care because after he declines Glenn's offer of help, he is over to Daryl, Oscar, and me in a few quick strides.

"Everyone have a gun and a knife?" that is the question thrown our way.

Daryl barely nods as he holds his bowl and spoon, meeting Rick's eyes. _"Yeah. _We're runnin' low on ammo, though."

"Maggie and me were planning on making a run this afternoon." Glenn is up now, a few yards behind Rick's towering form. They're going away now? Today? Hmm . . . "Found a phone book with some places we can hit; look for bullets and formula."

Daryl tells Rick information I already know. The generator room, Axel – he twists the spoon around as he talks. Rick responds with a _"Good, good." _and I grab onto the white, peeling railing – leaning into it – as he goes away as fast as he came in, the heels of his boots clicking with every step.

_"Rick!" _shouts Hershel, trying to get something, anything, because we're dying here.

The old man is answered with the slam of a rusted door.

* * *

I end up back outside after breakfast, after the rest of the bodies are burnt to a crisp. The smoke turns from black to white, my science teacher I had in the fourth grade told us it does that after its done burning. He didn't think any of us were listening; a bunch of nine-year-olds is what we were. I caught Mr. Jones' words and stored them away, though.

The fire – although dead – is still very well alive in scent and it gives off a strong smoke aroma. _Aroma; _that's one of the latest words I took upon myself to learn. I don't know why I do this, hated school, but perhaps it is just because I'm simply curious. There is so many things I never got to see or learn or do – I only have an elementary school education. But the learning, the reading, the words – they help me when it gets quiet; saved me from the darkness a few times over.

And that's enough, I guess.

I take a big whiff of the smoke; let it sit for a second, and then huff it out. For some reason I find to like it. Is that a bad thing? _Eh._

I've been walking the fence for some time now, letting my legs carry me down the same path all of us jogged to get to this point. There's walkers, always walkers – but hey, screw 'em. That's what I say. Reaching out, I drag my left pointer finger across the chain-link as I go. Some biters find it interesting enough and chase after the limb. Some stumble, one falls over. I chuckle to myself. _Idiots._

A whistle pierces the air. I stop.

There are footsteps, I recognize them right away. Hell, I've spent enough time with these people to know who is who just by footfalls or even shoes.

The footsteps – interrupted every one or two steps by a piece of gravel being kicked – stop when they're close enough. With one last look to the geeks, I turn to face the owner.

"Why you messin' with 'em?"

I shrug. My hair is here to hide behind if need be. _Good hair. _"I don't know."

And I don't, not really, anyways. I have no clue why I do most of the things I do . . . it all just turns out that way.

"Well, leave them be." Daryl says, gripping the crossbow strap. I left my bow in my cell. "They ain't botherin' no one."

I ask, "Why?" because I don't really see why not.

"'Cause I said so."

Sucking on my teeth, I slightly roll my eyes. I drag a boot over the pebbly ground. _Yeah. Whatever. _

The cell block door wails open and I can hear it even from here because my ears decided to play nice. Glenn and Maggie step out, they have gear, and I squint in the bright sun to see them heading towards the red car, the station wagon.

"Can I go with them?" I quickly throw the question out there before second thoughts have a chance to flood in.

Daryl looks to the two, sighing. His shoulders sink a little. "Carl – "

"Needs me,_ I know." _I interrupt, my mind is racing, bam, bam, bam . . . "And I've been there for him, really I have, but . . . I – I really just need to get away for a bit. Please."

He considers it. The denial is still there, I can clearly see it in his face, eyes – everything. "I don't know, kid. That winter thing you did, the infirmary . . ."

"That's why I'm asking you. _Please." _I'm bouncing on the balls of my feet now, switching up my weight. _C'mon._

"Still not sure how I feel 'bout this,"

_"Please." _

There is a minute of nothing. Even the walkers shut up. I'm antsy, as antsy as Payton's pony when she would tie it to the fence. The trunk to the red car – which has been open for a bit – slams when Daryl finally decides to start talking again.

"Well, if they don't have a problem with it, then yeah, I guess."

I hide how I really feel because I figure it to be too childish. Instead, I settle for letting a small smile slip. Daryl appears lighter and he ruffles my brunette strands around, rubs at my neck.

He tells me to be safe, remember everything I was taught.

And I say okay because I am good.

* * *

The drive to the destination is a short twenty minutes.

Maggie and Glenn hold hands occasionally; Glenn rubs her knee at times. It's cute, I guess. Not like I've ever had a boyfriend . . .

I rest my head on the window, watch as the world goes by even though I have already seen everything worth seeing. I love car rides, always have, and this one is no different.

We pull up to a worn out place called Southern Discount, which is what the sign perched above the door reads. Trash crunches under the tires of our car; other vehicles lay around – same old, same old. I jump out right when the brakes are put on, bow in hand. The other two shortly follow after the ignition is cut off, car doors slamming and such, and I do a little sweep of the area. This was a strip mall once – abandoned now of course – and the signs hung in different windows indicate some sort of sale was going on at the time of the turn.

Not a soul is in sight. Good, good . . .

"All clear." I inform my two partners who aren't the usual, but will do for this time around.

"Yeah." agrees Maggie, walking around the dusty station wagon. Her gun is out but pointed down. She passes a sign that reads: "COLD ICE AND BEER". "Looking good."

Glenn breathes out, "Alright . . . let's take a look. River, watch our backs."

"Already on it," I declare, leaning back against the side of the car facing the street and everything else. My fingers hold the arrow in my weapon steady. A crow calls from somewhere in the trees, it actually feels like spring today – no jackets needed. Glenn and Maggie kiss – lovebirds – and she tells him it's a beautiful day as the insects make all of their noises. The two of them didn't mind me tagging along; you can always use an extra person, I suppose.

There's a snapping sound, a grunt from Glenn, and then I hear chains being pushed aside. Something squeaks and before I know it I'm spun around, ducking because little black things are flying over my head, the flapping of their wings making a breeze hit my neck.

"Shit." I curse, but not too loudly.

_Bats. Freaking bats._

At least walkers can't fly.

So I go back to my job. I think I see something move behind one of the many dirty cars and I even squint, raise my bow, but nothing is around for miles, so I relax back on the vehicle. Sort of.

"Glenn, get that duck." Maggie is saying.

He replies after a beat, "What?"

She better be talking about a toy duck because I am not living with a real duck and a baby at the same time. I mean, I don't hear quacking; duck noises and such.

"Get that duck." the woman repeats with a breathy chuckle.

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah . . . A kid growing up in a prison could use some toys."

Like I said – toy duck.

* * *

About the length of the car ride is how long Glenn takes in the store, maybe even ten minutes more, give or take.

When he comes out into the sunshine, he pants, "We just hit . . . the powered formula jackpot."

I turn to see Glenn carrying red baskets from the store, one in each hand. Today's our day. Maggie is looking relieved. "Oh, thank God – "

One of the baskets is set down so Glenn can rummage through the other, naming off what he got, "I also got beans, um, batteries, cocktail wieners, honey mustards . . ." I move around the car, letting my guard down for just a second. Everything he is listing off is useful items; win, win, win . . .

"Oh, yeah – Riv – " Glenn remembers, pulling something out. "I got you a book; don't know if it's any good, though." He tosses it to me; I catch it, skimming over the cover. Another Stephen King novel.

"Sweet." I comment. "Thanks, Glenn."

The man nods. "It's a straight shot back to the prison from here, probably make it in time for dinner." One of the car doors is open and they start loading up, I skim through some of the pages of the book, flipping through it quickly.

Maggie says she likes the quiet. Yeah, I do sometimes. Just sometimes . . . "Back there, back home – you can always here 'em outside the fence no matter where you are."

Moving the book away from my face, I take in the truthfulness of Maggie's statement. The walkers, the ghosts, the dead people – they're always there, lurking. It's hard to escape and –

"Now where's it y'all good people callin' home?"

The book drops down to the pavement with a thud. That voice isn't Glenn or Maggie's. I scramble to get my bow ready as I hear the click of a gun.

_This is why you can't let your guard down; this is why you always have to be ready, always on point, always, always, always . . ._

I run up with the other two as they aim their guns at the unknown.

And that's when the unknown takes a turn for the known when my eyes adjust to the figure standing before me.

_Merle._


	10. Chapter 9: Strangers

**I took a much needed break from writing last week, didn't even touch my laptop. There were personal matters I had to attend to and life hasn't exactly been kind these past days, so bear with me, friends, bear with me . . . **

**Setting all of that aside, cheers, to The Walking Dead returning for another season today!**

**Enjoy. :)**

***I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

Chapter 9: Strangers

This would be easy if it were a stranger, put a bolt in their head and be done with it. But it's not that. It's not a stranger because faces of the living are something you never forget.

_It's Merle. _

Merle was supposed to be dead in Atlanta. He was supposed to be gone a year ago.

But here he is with blood trickling down his face from a gash in his nose and a gun in our face. Glenn breathes his name and I shift the bow, trying to decide if I need to lower it or not. The others haven't moved an inch so I hold position.

Something flickers across Merle's face as he takes in familiar faces and the man isn't guarded anymore. Laughing a dried chuckle, he sets the handgun down on the cracked pavement.

"Wow!" Merle exclaims, straightening. He recognizes us, of course he does, and then the man holds his hands up in a surrendering manner. A dark shirt – which has been covering his right hand – slides down to reveal a metal blade where his hand should be.

His hand, his hand –

_He cut off his hand to escape that rooftop. _

Merle's undershirt is coated in sweat like he was running, but no one else is with him. Blowing out air, he takes a step forward. My grip tightens on the bow, knuckles turning white. It's hard to trust – I'm sorry, Merle, but it is – and all those tired people we drove past on broken roads this winter doesn't make it any easier.

Merle tries to lift his foot for another step but Maggie stops him, _"Hey!" _she shouts, scurrying forward. Her arms are locked and stiff around the gun handle. "Back the hell up!"

"O – O – O – Okay, okay, honey," Merle stutters out, stopping but not backing up. "_Jesus."_

He moves forward, slowly this time. My body gets stiffer, which he notices, and then stills again.

"You made it." Glenn says and his face is stone cold, eyes locked onto the target. I don't know how Merle made it, but it couldn't have been on his own, could it? Daryl said he was "one tough son of a bitch" but he probably would have bled out, and how did he even cut off his hand in the first place? So many questions – no answers. I remember when we weren't allowed to come out of the RV so I stretched the boundaries by standing at the open door. When Daryl found out about Merle he didn't seem sad, just angry, and maybe that was all there was left for his brother. But none of this is really the point here because the point is I didn't feel sad when Merle was never found and I sure as hell don't feel happy now. What I feel is an uneasiness building within my chest, crushing my insides. And I don't like it one bit.

"Can you tell me, is my brother alive?"

Glenn's eyes connect with mine. Brown on Green. I am not sure what to do here and Glenn is hard to read right now, but we should at least let Merle know about Daryl. We owe him that, I guess.

Merle tries again, "Huh?"

Breaking gaze, we both turn back to the should-be-a-stranger. His arms are still partially up and the fingers on his hands – no, _hand – _are curled in a bit. Merle does not move but I can see the shrug in him, it is written across his face.

Glenn talks, "Yeah."

Merle drawls out a breath. He looks down as his chest heaves, nods a few times while his teeth press into his bottom lip. A weight has been lifted.

_"Hey," _he looks up, reaching out. I'm listening. "You, uh, take me to 'im and I'll call it even on everythin' that happened up there in Atlanta."

Atlanta is up in Northern Georgia, while we're down here closer to the Southern parts. I'm not sure what region or town or county we're currently in, but I just know we're not anywhere near Atlanta is all. Hell, I've probably been in almost every square inch of Georgia and I have changed from Atlanta. I know Glenn has, too, and Maggie does not act like she did on the farm. We've all changed . . . but has Merle? I do not know.

Merle adds, "No hard feelings . . . Huh?"

Swallowing, I take a look at the blade. It's taped to some metal thing which is strapped around Merle's forearm. We did that – _us._ He could have waited, though. They went back –

Laughs from Merle cause me to move my gaze up to his blood-smeared face. "You like that?" he asks and I realize he's talking directly to me. I do not reply and he holds it up, admiring the weapon. There's blood on the blade.

Turning back to me, he beams, "Yeah! Well, um, I found myself a, uh, medical supply warehouse. Fixed it up myself," He waves it around, chuckles again. "Pretty cool, huh?"

Glenn sneaks a glance Maggie's way and then his eyes slide over to me. I take in a shaky breath. Blow out.

"We'll tell Daryl you're here, and he'll come out to meet you." Good call. Good plan.

I just want to go home.

"Oh – oh hold on." Merle moves forward and I get rigid, practically throwing the arrow in his face. "Jus' hold on,"

Glenn throws an arm out, blocking Merle from advancing any further. "Whoa! _Whoa!"_

Merle keeps saying to hold up, trying to slow down the conversation when he's really just speeding everything up. I roll a shoulder; shift my weight on the warm concrete. I need to relax because I am stiff and if that happens none of this will work right. My ears pick up on Merle stating this is a miracle. It's not, though, none of this is. It's dark and cold and violent and fearful and the world has gone to hell, that's it. Even the baby – which was supposed to be something good – had to take someone. _Even the baby . . ._

I cannot say I believe Merle when he states that we can trust him. The way he says it doesn't settle right with me and it makes my chest hurt and stomach tighten more. My palms are sweaty and I change my grip on the weapon. _Breathe. _

"You trust _us," _Glenn is saying, "You stay _here." _

There is a pause, Merle snorts, grins, and then I _know. _

It happens fast. Reaching back, Merle pulls out another shiny gun and fires. The bullet goes through the back windshield of our red Chevy, glass exploding everywhere. Diving behind our wounded vehicle, I get some glass lodged into my palms. The bow is dropped and I hiss and curse and yank the shards out. Blood spews out of the fresh wounds. There is yelling. I reach for my weapon with bloody hands and I saw Merle drop his gun, I did, but he has two damn guns like I have two knives. Of course.

I have my bow but it doesn't have much of a place in this gun show. I take out my own gun, hands stinging, and switch the safety off. There should be enough bullets. Blood is dripping onto the cement and staining the blue-and-white handicap parking spot. And just when I start looking for a person because it got quiet, I get grabbed from behind.

_Dammit, dammit, dammit._

The gun clatters to the ground and my body gets pulled back. I kick and struggle, but in the end it is no use because a metal-knife-thing puts me in a headlock, pinning me down.

"You're okay, honey, you're okay." Merle mutters into my ear but it is far from that. Not even a little, not even a bit – not even at all.

My still bleeding hands latch onto his suffocating arm and I manage to choke two words out, "Let . . . go . . ."

"Could've been so easy," Something cool presses into the left side of my head and I immediately still. Everything is numb.

Glenn and Maggie appear from the front of the car and they stop in their tracks when they see the sight. Something flashes across Glenn's face for a moment before he aims his gun. Maggie's mouth hangs ajar as her gun dangles from her fingertips.

Merle's grip tightens, the gun pressing into my head further. My heart might just beat straight out of my chest. "Hey, hey, hold up, buddy, hold up!"

"Let go of her." Glenn snaps and there is no hesitation. _"Let go of her!"_

"Put that gun in the car, both of you." The man kicks my discarded gun and it slides over to my friends. "Here – put it in the car, son."

Glenn and Maggie both obey and drop their weapons through the smashed window. Picking up my gun, Glenn tosses it inside, too. I keep eye contact with Glenn as he and Maggie come back, hands up. That's all I have and I am going to hold on to it.

Merle states that we are going on a little drive, not home, but somewhere. I swallow hard and try to calm myself with Glenn's eyes.

My captor starts yelling, _"Get in the car! Glenn, you're drivin'!" _The voice chills me to the bone and I am scared, yes, I am. Merle puts his finger on the trigger, more pressure – he won't hesitate. _"Move!"_

"Don't – " Glenn holds a hand out, the only thing he can do. I try to catch my breath, keeping staring into his eyes. "Okay . . ."

Both of my friends move away. Car doors slam. Merle removes the knife in my holster and then digs out the one tucked into my right boot.

"Who ya think taught Daryl that trick?" he questions, which I do not answer, and then he pushes me up. I roll into the back seat with Maggie, my hands still bloody and battered. She puts a hand on my knee, Glenn glances back through the mirror. Merle tumbles into the passenger seat, starts listing off directions.

Today was supposed to be okay and we'd be alright at the end of it. Still healing, but alright.

But the only thing needed healing now are my palms and maybe we should have just pretended Merle was a stranger.

* * *

Everything is unfamiliar.

This place, these surrounding four walls, the air – they are new.

Georgia is my home, the known. But Merle took it and made it the unknown. Damn you . . .

The lights are dim in this room. Four walls, ceiling, floor, a door, two chairs, two beating hearts, and a table – that's all there is.

When Merle brought us here, he separated Glenn and me from Maggie – I don't know where she is. Glenn and I are side by side behind the long table, our arms duct taped to wooden chairs. We can't get out if we tried. My palms stopped bleeding some time ago but that doesn't mean they do not hurt. I hold the throbbing limbs away from the arm of the chair to avoid putting pressure on them. Glass sucks.

Glenn keeps quiet so I do, too. The shadows of the room try to suffocate us whole. Our eyes meet and just before I think he's about to talk about how much we screwed up, the door squeaks open and the spell is broken. My green eyes land on Merle as the door bangs closed behind him. He has a smug look spread across his face, the heels of his boots echoing as he comes forward. I can tell he cleaned up because the blood is gone, replaced by a thin band aid spread across the bridge of his nose. Daryl's brother approaches the table and reaching his blade out, he runs it down the wood as he walks. The friction sounds like nails on a chalk board and I cringe.

The blade swipes away when it gets to the end of the table. Glenn is breathing hard and I guess I am, too, because my heartbeat is practically in my ears. I retreat my gaze down to my dusty boots.

"You don't even know why you're here, do ya?" I hear Merle question and no I don't, and I just want to go home . . . _I just want to go home._

Merle shifts, the boots skidding across the hard floor. "I didn't mean any of ya harm."

Then why'd you take us, Merle, huh? _Why? _

"I lowered my gun, but you raised yours." I dare to look up. _"Or bow," _Merle adds, eyes on me now, and I go back to hiding. "Where'd you get a weapon like that, hmm?" He pushes off the table, coming closer. "Shit – my own baby brother probably taught ya. He was always better with the little ones . . ." Merle kneels down to me, making my gaze go to him. "That's what happened, right?" I don't respond, just clench my jaw, and he puts his only hand on my left one, forcing the palm down. _"Right?" _

Hissing, I give in and nod frantically. _Get off, get off, get off. Ow, ow, ow . . ._

Merle lets off, patting my shoulder as he moves away. "Good."

"You were an asshole out there, Glenn," he says as he circles back around. "Jus' like you were on that rooftop back there in Atlanta . . . What y'all did, leavin' me up there – people wouldn't do that to an animal."

Maybe not . . . but most animals aren't complete assholes.

"We went back for you." Glenn speaks. And we did. Some people go back for their animals later on.

"Ain't you thoughtful?"

_"We did_, all of us – Rick, Daryl, T-dog – "

"Mmm, T-dog . . ." Merle remembers, moving around again. "Yeah, big ol' spear-chucker, the one I was pleadin' with."

T-dog saved me.

"Mmm-hmm, the one that dropped the key . . . Tell me where he's at; I'm sure T-dog would like to bury the hatchet."

He was a good man.

"Let bygones be bygones."

Whatever that means . . .

"He's gone." I reply, voice cracking.

"So it does speak," Merle leans in like before. I swallow. "Well, I hope he went slow – _yeah . . ."_

_"Screw you." _

"Got quite a mouth on ya, kid," Merle comes over, the blade forcing my chin up. I glare at him. "Officer Friendly ain't here this time – oh, no, no, no . . . I'd watch it if I was you." It only takes a second for the blade to be moved and for my lip to be stinging and spewing blood. I run my tongue over the metallic liquid as Merle goes away. My hands can't even move to help with the situation so I lean over, spitting out some of the crimson liquid. It stains the floor.

Merle questions Glenn now, "How 'bout the rest? Hmm?" The man settles down on the table. "How 'bout my baby brother? You can't tell me he's alive and then hold off on where he is."

Yes, we can because we're not telling Merle jack. Glenn looks away and I follow, sucking on my busted lip.

"No? Well, maybe the farmer's daughter will help me out."

Merle attempts to get under Glenn's skin. He talks about Maggie, runs the blade over my friend's face, and then stops after no reaction.

"I remember you." he stares into Glenn's eyes. Then, his gaze flicks to me. "I remember you, too." Back to Glenn: "You're the sneaky one, the one of nerve." And me: "And you're the quiet one. Ain't so quiet now, though,"

He puts the blade on Glenn. "You both don't scare easy, do ya?" Leaning in, he breathes in our faces, _"I like that."_

Merle walks behind us and then he grabs Glenn's forehead, puts the blade in his mouth. All I can do is watch. "Now, I wanna know where my brother is."

He starts to put pressure on the weapon, pulling back on Glenn's head. He is hurting him, I can tell, so I yell, "Merle, stop!"

Fortunately, he does stop and releases Glenn. Back in our faces is where he goes. "I wanna know where the Sheriff is!" Glenn head-butts him and Merle stumbles back, gripping his nose.

I make eye contact with my friend once more. He swallows. Merle faces us and his nose is dripping fresh blood again; the wound opened back up.

He hits the table, shouts, _"Martinez!"_

Martinez? Who – who is that?

The door flies open and a man with a backwards hat hustles in. He speed walks over to me and quickly cuts the tape off. I look at Glenn, Merle is laughing, and then he punches him. _He punches Glenn._

I'm being dragged away, Merle hits Glenn again.

I start struggling, fighting with everything I got. Screaming as Merle continues his assault on someone I consider a brother, _"No! Stop! Glenn! Stop! No!"_

I get forced out the door. _"Glenn! Glenn! Glenn!"_

The stranger just keeps dragging me until I can't hear the sounds of Glenn getting beat to a bloody pulp anymore.

* * *

**This chapter was supposed to be longer but I think I'll end it here for now.**

**Anyway, I just wanted to give you guys a huge THANK YOU because the amount of love this writing thing is getting is insane! Thank you all so, so, so, so much because it makes what I love doing so much better. **

**Have a great life. **

**Love you all.**

**:)**

**~ Rainy**


	11. Chapter 10: Dying

**I'll update "Winter" one of these days.**

***I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

Chapter 10: Dying

There is a time and place where you give out. A time and place where you let the darkness come and trample right over your tired body.

This is that time and place.

I lay sprawled out on the cold floor of an empty room with four walls and a roof. There is no table now, no chair; I'm not even bound. Just me, my achy hands, ugly scars, and blood-filled mouth.

It got quiet long ago . . . Or maybe I just accepted that I am going to die. Reality sucks, karma's a bitch, we were dealt shitty cards – yeah, I get it. We always pull the short straw, don't we? There is one light source in this room dangling from the ceiling like a fancy earring. I'm on my sore back and my eyes watch the object slowly swing back and forth.

_Jus' when I thought you was wisin' up . . . Now look at ya, lyin' on the ground like used rubber. _

Hi, Dad.

_You're dyin' here. But you know that, don't'cha? _

"So?" I question the ceiling. "Good a day as any."

_You never would've made it anyways. Too much of a coward._

"Shut up." I spit, sitting up. This causes me to choke on some blood resting in my mouth and I go into a coughing fit until I can see the crimson liquid spilling on to the floor.

_Don't let the world spoil you, honey._

Mom.

_Remember who the enemy is. _

Somehow, I have collected enough strength to climb to my feet. My ears pick up on noises outside. _Voices._

"Why can't J interrogate her? That's his line of work, anyhow." a stranger talks. I don't know who "J" is. Maybe Jay like the name – doesn't matter.

"You heard Governor," that's Merle. "'Sides, she's just a kid. Won't hurt ya none."

_You're okay. _Still Mom.

I'm okay.

_You good?_

I will be, Daryl.

The steel door opens and Merle appears with a chair. He sets it a few feet away, I glare at him. Then, Merle is gone and in walks a nerdy-looking guy with round glasses. _Great. _

The door slams shut and the new man approaches. He has a plate in one hand, clipboard in another; looks nervous but I don't know why. I swallow; eyeing him as he puts the plate on the chair. He holds the clipboard, clicks the pen attached to it. "Hello." he greets and I realize he was the same person questioning Merle out in the hall. "My name is, uh, Milton. I'm – "

"They're gonna kill him, right?" I interrupt because I could care less if his name is Milton or Mark or Matthew or _whatever_. They have Glenn, Maggie, too, and that's all that matters.

Milton peers over the clipboard. "I do not believe their intentions were to that extreme with the concerns of your friend."

_"Family." _I correct. "And there were two of them, not just one . . ." I have no idea where Maggie is and Glenn, well, he wasn't doing so well. I look straight into his eyes. "They're dying. I am, too._ But you already know that."_

"I – I do not know."

Of course you don't.

Milton adds, "And I am terribly sorry for that but I have some questions I was instructed to ask you."

"I'm not playing." I turn around. Stare at the back wall. Maybe the walls will close in and suffocate me until there is nothing left. Until I don't matter. Until I won't have to be questioned.

"Yes, you are." I look to him, quirk an eyebrow. "And you _will. _This – this could mean life or death for both you and your . . . 'family'."

I move back around.

He gestures to the plate. "I brought you a sandwich,"

"You trying to bribe me?"

Milton shrugs. I won't eat, I know that.

"What's your name?" he asks. I think about lying. I think about a lot of things, actually, but then my real name slips off my tongue so there's no hiding there.

"How old are you?"

"Thirteen." I answer, staring at the door to hide my shame. _Can't believe I'm doing this –_ "Give or take."

Milton scribbles some notes down on the pathetic clipboard. "Your name is interesting . . . any reason for that?"

"What?" That can't be part of the questions.

The clipboard falls to his side. "Well, I'm the middle child. My older sister was Molly; my younger brother – Michael. My mother favored the letter 'M'."

I go to the thoughts running in my head. Not all of them are bad. "My mom just liked nature, I guess."

"I see . . ." He doesn't write anything down. "And her name?"

My eyes retreat. "Why're you doing this?"

_This. This _as in: why are you here? _This _as in: how are you still alive? _This _as in: what does it matter?

And this is Milton's answer, "For research, mostly," He fixes his glasses. "And loyalty – seems to me that is how most of us get by these days."

Doesn't have to be unless you change.

"Let me ask you something, River," he starts, and I hate the way strangers say my name, "Have you ever wondered if those _things _are the cage holding back what that person was? Is?"

_We're all infected._

"I try not to think about it." Because if I do I won't be able to breathe; won't be able move.

Won't be able to kill.

Just die.

I'm dying now.

"Fair enough," Milton answers. I guess it is, isn't it?

Milton asks about where our camp is at. I say we were just passing through – not even from around here. I tell him that we have a whole lot of muscle, that we have ammunition, that they can track . . . And the more I talk, the more I start to believe it myself.

After everything, I ask Milton who the Governor is but he doesn't reply.

I don't want to know the name of the person I'm going to kill anyway.

* * *

Martinez stands at the door for a little bit. I can see the shadows of his figure from under the object, can hear him fidgeting around, mumbling things. We all talk to ourselves.

And then – after minutes and minutes pile onto each other – he leaves.

There is no chair anymore because Martinez took it away. He did, however, leave the plate. Closing in, I swipe off the pitiful ham and cheese sandwich from the plate, and it flops to the floor. My hands run over the plate – it's glass alright – and my palms are probably stinging, but I can't feel. _Probably. _

No handbook was ever created for killing people and I realize that as I smash the object into the wall, breaking it into many pieces. There's no right way, not exactly a wrong way either.

My fingers find a shard.

I've never killed a person before; someone who _mattered. _Just walkers or _people trapped in cages, _as Milton put it.

A thirteen-year-old girl should never have to do this.

There are footsteps sounding in the hall I've never seen and I guess someone heard.

I just want to go home.

Martinez bursts through the door and he's not who I really want to kill, but he's still _a person._

So I lunge.

_Red. _There's so much red. Red on Martinez's face, red on my palms, red in my eyes –

I don't hear anything, I don't feel anything, and I don't even think I'm still alive until my body is thrown against a wall. My head is fuzzy.

Martinez isn't dead.

And neither am I.

I stare into his brown eyes, head splitting. He looks hurt and I feel bad and then I can't see anymore.

I'm being moved again but I don't know where.

Probably to my grave.

* * *

A door squeals open, I can see again, and then I'm tripping over my two numb feet.

Another room. Another hard floor.

I get swept up and dragged into a warm body. The door slams and the aftermath of the action echoes, ringing in my ears. I try to fight the arms holding me close but I can't. I don't even feel _here. _

Buried deep within all of the strangers, I find something familiar, _"River . . ."_

_"Glenn – " _I choke out, wrapping my arms around him. My eyes feel wet as I bury myself into his shoulder; breathe in the scent I _know. _I hate hugs and getting close but this feels more right than wrong. It feels – it feels like _coming home,_ just a little bit. _Just a little, tiny bit . . ._

I talk into his shoulder, "You're here."

"And so are you." Glenn replies.

"I thought – " _No. _

"So did I."

Pulling away, we get a good look at each other.

"Your cheek is bleeding." he says, wiping something cool off my burning skin. I hiss. _"Sorry."_

Glenn is bad . . . He's really, really bad. His face – oh my God, his face . . . Black and blue and purple and red –

"Your whole face is bleeding." I reply. More realization dawns and I want to collapse right here and now. "Glenn, we screwed up."

_"Yeah," _he breathes, "I know." I notice a sharpened piece of wood wrapped in duct tape beside him, then. Looking further back, my eyes spot a shattered chair, overturned furniture, more blood – _a body._

"Glenn, what – "

He ignores my wandering eyes and question, stands up and asks, "Have you seen Maggie?"

"No." Glenn pulls me to my feet as I answer. "I was alone."

Bending down, he slowly picks up the makeshift weapon. I know it hurts. I'm in pain, too.

But that doesn't matter.

Glenn claims he has a plan, a way out. And I want to know what happened in this place, but then the door opens, my stomach dropping, before words can get to me.

The weapon is in Glenn's grasp as he steps in front of me. He is poised and ready to go.

Merle comes in, Martinez behind him.

I am frozen, breathing hard as my throat clenches.

Merle holds out a hand to Glenn's striking stance. "Uh-uh,"

Martinez points the gun at us.

A man I've never seen before drags a girl in. _Maggie. _

Maggie isn't wearing a shirt.

My jaw drops.

Glenn lunges but Martinez just points his weird looking gun at Maggie, who is trying to cover herself up. Glenn drops the wood and it clatters to the ground.

Things happen. I'm pushed to my knees and so is Glenn. Maggie is scooted over to the side, forgotten and exposed. My eyes glue themselves to the floor and I can't decide if I am scared or not. I ought to be, though.

Because this is it.

The man paces back in forth between these four walls, the heels of his boots clicking on the hard floor with each step. The sound echoes, bounces, until it is swallowed up. I watch his worn boots as he goes; my blood-filled mouth is open as labored breaths of air travel in and out of it. My face stings, my eyes feel wet, and a blood droplet falls down from my cheek and stains the floor.

The boots still and so does my heart for a moment, but I refuse to look up. You would think someone would want to know what their killer looks like, but no, not me. This man doesn't deserve any words from my lips, much less my eyes.

"We're done playing games." he says, but I don't think I am. I'm pretty sure I could go for another round of hide and seek. I hide the information everyone is so desperately searching for and they try to seek it – drag it out of me – little do they know I'll never tell . . .

The boots are back to moving and this time they come for me. His shadow looms over my crumpled form, swallowing me up like this room swallows his footfalls after a brief hesitation. His fingers find my chin and they force my stiff head up.

I stare death in the face, green on green, and then the man opens his mouth to speak once more. "Now, you're gonna give up where your camp's at."

My eyes move over his shoulder to the two people behind him – _his people –_ with their smug looks and deadly weapons. They would die for this man right here, I know that, and I will die for my family both with me now and back home.

Lazily, my gaze slides back over to the person gripping me with his cold stare. "No can do . . . _mister."_ I spit, my tongue gliding over the blood that has settled in my mouth, and I can taste the metallic liquid there.

He lets go of me, backs up a few feet, and then his gun is out; a shiny revolver. Quickly, he takes three strides forward and closes the distance between us. The revolver presses against my forehead, it feels cool against my burning skin, and I realize that this is the first time I've ever looked down the barrel of a fully loaded gun.

The gun clicks. "So unwise . . ." the man mutters to me.

This is where I will die.

I will die in a smothering room with a man I don't know and in a place I'm unfamiliar with. Bruised and bloody, I will go out quickly like turning off a light. _Alone _– I will die alone even though there are others in here with me.

You always face death alone.

I think about the rest of my family back at that safe haven I never gave up as the man pulls the trigger.

* * *

**Heyyyyyy, would you look at that! We're all caught up with the prologue! Sweet! :D**

**I'm doing a bit better so thank you all for the support. You guys sure know how to make my day.**

**Until next time . . .**

**~ Rainy**


	12. Chapter 11: Killer

**This chapter is kind of a celebration (even though it was yesterday) of my one year anniversary of being on this site! Whoot! It's been an incredible year, you all have been so kind and supportive, and I do not regret joining this site at all.**

**Let's keep on going for another year and many more to come. :)**

***I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

Chapter 11: Killer

I've always wondered if death hurt.

Not the thing that causes death, for I know that is painful as hell, but the slipping away part.

One of my earliest memories of the old world include running around in my rectangular backyard, chasing a yellow butterfly. I couldn't have been more than five and the long blades of grass tickled my feet as I ran. It was a late summer afternoon and Mom and Dad were watching on the patio . . . _happy _and – and _laughing._ I can only guess that the concrete wasn't cracked yet and the garden Mom used to love so much was still intact and not devoured by weeds. The butterfly stopped to take a rest after a few minutes and that was when I reached out to touch it. One of its wings fell off when contact was made. I cried and cried because I killed the dang butterfly – they can't live without two wings – and my parents tried to explain that these things happen.

_Why? _Because it's nature and things die so others can grow.

I still asked _why_ even though I really didn't care.

All I cared about was that I hurt the butterfly and it was probably in pain, fading out slowly somewhere.

Only animals don't talk so I never knew if that was true.

Darkness lies everywhere. There is nothing else but it. I am scared and alone and lost and gone –_ yeah_ – but I don't feel pain.

It doesn't even hurt at all.

The only problem is that I am trapped in a box of darkness with no light source around. I don't like being locked up or confined; that leads to panic attacks. I want to go into the woods, need to be far, far away where everything is truly _good _and I can practice what I was taught by hunting squirrels and rabbits; deer if I'm lucky.

A clicking sound reels me back in and then _I feel it. I feel it all._

I feel the muzzle of the gun and runaway blood trails and pain and emptiness. I also can feel the light burning my eyes as they open; blinking down at my arms reminds me what the world has done to me.

My killer retracts the revolver. He thumbs the chamber, sliding it over one spot, and then it is locked into place again. I find myself staring down the barrel once more and my body stiffens. I'm already the walking dead, so just pull the trigger, stranger, and I'll float up into the air.

He does.

More clicking.

I'm still here.

"Most not be fully loaded," the man observes with some humor added to his tone. He flicks the chamber over another slot. "Third time's a charm, eh?"

Maggie gives in,_ "The prison." _she slurs, shuffling forward while still covering herself. Merle doesn't let her get any closer and I stare wide-eyed at the woman.

Why'd you have to do it, Maggie? I was gonna . . . I was gonna . . .

_You were gonna die is what. She just saved your ass._

"The one near Nunez?" Merle asks and I don't – I don't even know. Whatever part of Georgia we stumbled into is where it's at.

Martinez states that our home is overrun. And it was, it really was, but we took it and it was ours and don't take it away, please, don't. _Please don't hurt them._

"We took it." more truth from Maggie.

The man isn't shoving the gun in my face anymore but it is still there. He talks to Maggie, "How many are you?"

"Eleven . . . We have eleven now."

"Eleven people cleared that whole prison of biters?"

We had more.

I'm forced to look at him again, gun on my chin now. "Is this true? _Huh?"_

I give him a hard stare before I answer, "Yes."

He nods, rolls his tongue over his bottom teeth. "Good . . . good . . ."

And then he is backing away, the gun is gone. Maggie gets pushed to Glenn. She cries into his embrace and he just holds her close because that is all he can do. You can't take away the pain, it still stays.

The door slams shut.

My stunned body decides to stop functioning again and I fall back onto the floor.

Maggie's sobs haunt my mind.

* * *

Glenn and Maggie join me on the floor, our backs against the wall. Maggie wears his shirt and she claims that she's okay; how they barely touched her. I stare down at my palms as she talks because they are torn to hell. My head still pounds. The only good thing is the cuts on both my lip and cheek have stopped bleeding for the most part.

"All this time runnin' from walkers – " Maggie sniffles. "you forget what people do . . . _have always done." _I forgot for a little while and yeah, I'll admit to it, too. When you're with good people and it's just us and walkers, it is hard to remember what was. My eyes travel to the blood smeared all over Glenn, the shaking Maggie – _what still is. _

"I had to do it," Maggie is saying to me, "I couldn't just let it happen."

She had to give up our family and our home. At first I was just a tad bit upset, but those feelings are long gone now. They are as far away as that Stephen King novel Glenn found for me or the "jackpot store" or my bow. I can't even feel that happiness anymore.

And so I say, "I get it."

"I guess it would be the same way with Beth, y'know? I mean, God – look at what they did to the two of you,"

Glenn says it doesn't matter.

"I tried to fight back." I tell them, toying with the shoelace on my left boot that was once tighter. "I had a glass shard, I was gonna do it, but then it was just over . . . That was _it." _

The body that has been here since I was returned to this room lies lifeless in the back corner. It _was_ a walker; Glenn told Maggie that when she asked, and Merle threw it in while a member of my family was still duct taped to a wooden chair. _Son of a bitch . . ._

It's a wonder he's Daryl's brother.

Everything is supposed to get quiet, then, but Glenn doesn't let it. Pushing off the wall, he stands with a groan. I watch from the floor as he stumbles over to the dead walker, his body crumbling into itself. He clutches his side as he kneels down – might have a broken rip or something, can't be sure, though Hershel would know. I miss the old vet. I miss him and Daryl and Carl and Rick and Beth and even – even the wailing baby. Or Little Asskicker. But that's what Daryl called her so it hurts . . . The prisoners weren't that bad either.

I don't really think they're coming anymore; can't really track a car.

Glenn's hands find the long-gone biter's arm and his boot presses down on its chest. And in two painful tugs, that arm comes off the body; all slimy and rotten and bloody and _dead_ . . . I was supposed to be the dead one.

I'm on my feet with Maggie. None of us speak as Glenn breaks the arm by repeatedly stomping on it. I could do that, for I have enough anger to, but my legs are too stiff and numb to move. Glenn digs out the bones in the forearm – I don't know what they are – and I can't help but scrunch my face up at the sight.

"River?" he says my name in a steady tone. It carries over his shoulder, but he doesn't look at me because that would hurt too much.

_"Yeah – "_

He turns slowly, setting something hard in my hand. "Remember when I said I had a plan . . ." his voice dies off.

I look down to see a sharp bone – which has been mostly cleaned off – resting in the messed up palm of my hand.

Glenn finishes, "They should be back soon."

_We've all done the worst kind of things just to stay alive._

Yeah, Rick, we have.

My green eyes glide to the door.

_We will._

* * *

Three men return, but Merle is the only one I recognize.

Glenn takes them all by surprise when he bursts through the door, pushing the danger back. Maggie and I advance in quickly as the plan goes into action. She slams a guy with brown hair up against the steel wall, shoving the pointy end of the bone into his neck. He screams in agony as blood spews everywhere and that is when I kick the other man – the one with sandy blonde hair – in the knee because I'm not big enough to face him head on. The man falls to the floor and my hand shakes as I push the bone into his neck like Maggie did, trying not to think about it too much. I turn away slightly and squeeze my eyes shut as the blood coats my hands and the struggling and yells of pain from my victim begin. I've never killed someone before and I didn't know this man, but someone_ did_ – they had to.

I feel his hand grip onto one of mine that are wrapped around the bone.

Merely hours ago, I was on my knees about to get a bullet in my head from a shiny revolver. The man – my killer – was too proud and sure of himself for his own good. My ears have picked up on the title "Governor" floating around the halls and maybe that is his name, perhaps not. The point is, though, this time around I'm the killer.

And that terrifies me.

_I'm sorry._

I add more pressure onto the wound, afraid he might have enough strength left to push me off.

_I'm sorry. _

My head turns to him and I just watch as the life slips out of the man. It's so scary and I don't like it one bit that I can pinpoint the exact moment he takes his final breath, mouth ajar and eyes just _staring _at me.

_How could you?_

_I'm sorry. I'm sorry._

His hand falls from my wrist and I kick his lifeless body away. His blood stains my hands, all of the red. _My _kill, _I _did this, _me, me, me . . . _

_I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry._

I am a killer.

Gunshots ring out and I drop down even though I am not sure what is happening. Both Glenn and Maggie are on the ground, Merle is, too. He's still alive. Merle grabs Glenn and pins him down and I try to do something, but I come up with nothing. This is where Maggie steps in, though, and she grabs the gun that was once firing – aims it at Merle. He has the blade on Glenn's throat.

"Let him go!" she screams as the gun clicks. I get to my feet, heat racing and head buzzing.

Merle's eyes wander, he says okay. A tiny twinge of hope goes through me but it disappears when I can feel a gun digging into the back of my head.

And so we lose the game again.

The three of us are dragged back into the room and shoved onto our knees. There are more people than ever in here.

I think it really is game over this time.

Merle circles us in his usual cocky gait, "Glad we could catch up . . ." His voice is drawn out so I can hear him until the circle is complete. I take a deep breath, chest aching. My thoughts that usually spiral down into nothing take refuge in the good section of my head.

_"The story is that when American soldiers were movin' Indians off their lands on the Trail of Tears, the Cherokee mothers were grievin' and cryin' so much 'cause they were losin' their little ones along the way from exposure and disease and starvation. A lot of 'em just disappeared. So the elders, they said a prayer – asked for a sign to uplift the mothers' spirits, give them strength and hope. The next day the rose started to grow where the mothers' tears fell."_

_"So this one bloomed for my mom, then, huh?"_

_"Yeah."_

A sack is shoved down over my head. Everything becomes dark again.

_"Big Dipper." _

My arms get yanked forward and I feel something sticky start to wrap around my wrists, bonding them together. Duct tape.

_"I couldn't find it for a while, but I got it now."_

The memories get yanked away as I'm pulled to my feet. _Poof._

Barking orders from strange voices, "On your feet – move!"

I trip over a foot since my vision is absent, get pushed forward by someone else. "Come on, let's go!"

If only I could see, you know? I have to bite my tongue to hold that one in . . .

Every step is frantic and feels misplaced. My vision is gone, most of my feeling, too – key factors in being a hunter. And then my hearing disappears for a second, too, as an explosion goes off. This knocks me off of my feet, nobody forces me back up, and there goes my breathing as smoke fills up my lungs.

I get grabbed as the whole room goes into a coughing fit and I try to fight back, but I can't even breathe.

The sack is removed. It feels like submerging from being underwater. My vision blurs from the smoke but I can still make out the face in front of me to be Daryl. He cuts the duct tape with a quick swipe.

_Wait . . . Daryl? _

He helps me up, leads my broken body away. I don't understand and there is no time to either because before I know it, we're outside in the night air. We jog down a street, like a street in an actual town, and the buildings look how they did before everything. This can't be real . . .

Oh, but it is. It is because here is Rick with Glenn and Maggie, and Oscar in his blue jumper. They came for us; they saved us – but how? They couldn't have known, shouldn't of.

But they did.

A door is opened and I'm through it before I even realize. Glenn falls to the floor in a heap with Maggie. I don't examine the room like I usually do. Daryl had me the whole way from the torture chamber and he doesn't let go of me now. He quickly looks over my bruises and cuts with a grazing thumb. There is not much time. When his eyes settle on my palms, though, he twitches and reaches back to pull out a red rag from his pocket.

Daryl asks, "Which one is dominate?"

I think for a second. "Right."

He goes to work and swiftly wraps the material around my right hand, covering the sensitive skin. A gun much like the one that was supposed to end my life is nudged into my wrapped hand. I can barely look at it. "Might have to shoot, don't know yet,"

I don't reply because in the rush of everything I managed to catch a glimpse of something. Something – or someone – is lurking in the back; not completely important but still _there._

I think I am seeing ghosts.


End file.
